Resident Evil: Another Side, Another Nightmare
by Wesker888
Summary: A Delta Sergeant and his men find themselves trapped in Raccoon City during the Outbreak. Separated, short on ammo and morale, they must find any other survivors and survive Umrella's onslaught.
1. Before the Outbreak

For new readers, welcome to the other side… the other nightmare.

For old readers, I'm so sorry I re-did the story, but the original was just not right in more ways than one. To explain it all would be an excuse, and I'm done with that.

This was my original idea for this story. I think it would be best if you read how it was really supposed to be.

Don't own RE, obviously. Don't own Delta One, and the other teams are only about half-way mine. Delta Eight is all mine, as are all civilians and Umbrella soldiers that pop in.

Hope you enjoy.

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Chapter One: Before the Outbreak

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Tom aimed his Beretta at the targets and fired three quick shots. All three targets went down in a fluid motion.

He sighed. This was just too trivial for him, yet he still did it. Never mind that he was one of the best shots in the unit- the practice just helped. Just because you were good didn't mean you couldn't be better. And as one of the team leaders, he had to provide a good example for his men.

He was a member of the highly elite Delta Squadron, the special ops. unit known for its secrecy and its being the best. He was the team leader of Delta Eight, one of the ten Delta teams that had been assigned to the makeshift base ten clicks outside of Raccoon City- his former hometown. Why they were here was a bit of a mystery- command had been extremely discreet in regards to this mission. But it had to have been for a reason- otherwise, he wouldn't be extremely pissed off right now.

He wasn't exactly pissed at her- he never could be. But… it had just been so sudden. She had just dumped him, just like that. True, it was easier to handle when everyone started bugging him about it. But he had never felt so empty in his life.

Tom was a tall, lanky kid with long black hair and a scruff beard. This was one of the reasons he liked Delta- he didn't have to go with those annoying shaved heads and clean shaven. Because they were stealth ops, they couldn't just go on a secret mission with an Army cru cut and no facial hair- that was a dead give-away. He could look like he always did back home- like he just got out of bed.

He holstered his Beretta and walked out, grabbing his jacket and hat and putting them on. It was a peaceful end-of-summer day, the kind he and Anna used to enjoy back when he was a civi. It was the last summer they had spent together before joining up. That was… almost two years ago, yeah. He way twenty now- one of the younger D-boys in the unit. And he and Anna were no longer together. He guessed it was because of his job, or maybe it was just college- Raccoon University was supposed to be a real bitch. He just wished he could have had more time.

No time to deal with that now, he guessed. He had paperwork to fill out.

88888

Around that time, the mail boy was wandering around with a large package in his arms. He was looking for someone, anyone. He finally found someone who could help him find the man he was searching for.

That someone was Jimmy Nelson, Delta Eight's medic and sniper, a tall guy with a pointed nose and hair that was a mix of black and red. The mail boy went over to him.

"Hey, Nelson, you see Sergeant Horan anywhere?" he asked.

"Um, try gun range, he went by there 'bout an hour ago," Nelson replied.

Thanking him, the mail boy went to check, and came up empty handed. Kinda desperate now, as this box was breaking his skinny arms, he went around again and found another helper- Paul Jackson, Delta Eight's machine gunner and radioman. The tall, thin, muscled man with a bandana on his head was sitting on the back of a truck and giving his machine gun a good spit shine.

"Jackson, you see Sergeant Horan?"

Jackson looked up, "Yeah, uh, try a few buildings down, maybe." He hacked up a good loogie and spit it onto his gun.

Not a load of help, the mail boy nevertheless went down and sighed in happy relief when he found a truly reliable source: Ryan Cribbs, the second in command of Delta Eight and Tom's best friend. He was standing in the street, lighting up a cigarette, while the kid went over and repeated his question a third time.

"Yeah, he just walked in there a few seconds ago," Cribbs nodded towards the building adjacent them, the clerks office. Tears of joy almost ran down the kids face as he thanked him and ran inside.

Tom was sitting at the table, filling out some release forms when the mailman came in and cried in happiness. He placed the box onto the table and panted.

"Pa-Package-for you," he huffed.

"What is it?" Tom pushed the papers aside and pulled the box over.

"Don't have a clue, but it's one heavy bitch," the kid sighed, "tell whoever you correspond with to make your cookies with a little less yeast."

The Delta sergeant chuckled and dismissed him. Once the boy was gone, he whipped out his combat knife and slid it through the tape, cutting it evenly. Once done, he opened it.

His eyes closed in pain. It was all of his stuff- the stuff Anna had held on to. She was giving it back. Tom searched the package. No note, letter, nothing. She just sent it back without a word.

Totally and utterly dumped.

And the pain grew even worse.

88888

That night, all the Delta men and the chopper pilots- the Night Stalkers from the 160th that were on the mission with them- were in the bunker, enjoying their food, watching movies, playing games, and just loafing around.

Because the mission had been on such short notice, Delta command didn't have time to get an actual military barracks for them. So they got an old abandoned bunker instead. To Tom, it seemed a lot like the Somalia set-up the unit had had in '93, but he didn't complain. They were only here for another week or two, then back to a real base.

All around him, his comrades were loafing around, enjoying themselves. He didn't. His mood was too terrible to hang with the others.

The teams all had their own little areas where they hung together. In Delta One's area, Sergeant John Bradley was cleaning his M-16, which he did twice or three times a day. A tall, stern man with a serious attitude, Bradley was an old-time soldier from the Desert Storm days. A former lieutenant, he was brought down a couple of ranks due to a botched mission that he didn't know all of the details for. He and his team were now always the one being left behind on missions. It sucked.

Behind him, his team members, Paul Foley, Mick Connors, and David Jones were all playing a game of Bullshit and shooting exactly just that.

"So I'm with this broad in a bar, right?" Connors, the machine gunner, a large man with a New Yorker's attitude, told them, "And all of a sudden, this guy comes up to me, he's obviously had a bit too much to drink, and he's hitting on the girl I'm with. Right in front of my eyes!"

"Dude, that's fucked up. One six," Foley, the sniper, a tall thin man with a hawks eye, laid a card down.

"No kidding. Two sevens," Connors placed two cards, "so I get up and tell the guy, 'Hey, she's with me. Back off.' And the guy turns to me and asks, all slurred, 'you wanna fight me, bitch?' Now, I'm not one for fighting civilians, but he's asking for it, so I go, 'Aiight, take your best shot.' So, he winds back, punches, misses me, and the fist goes like a fucking boomerang. And he just goes WHAM!" he slammed his fist onto the table, "Fist goes into his face, he falls back onto the table, the table goes down with him due to his weight, and all the drinks and peanuts on the table spill on top of him."

His friends barreled over in hysterical laughter. Even Bradley, sitting a little ways away on his cot, cracked a grin. Connors resumed his story, tears lining his face.

"So- so then the police show up, right? And the youngest one- couldn't have been more than twenty- takes one look at the guy, then looks at me and asks, 'What did you do to him?' all surprised like. And I just go, 'Pffft. I didn't do nothing. Crouching Tiger over here knocked himself out, interrogate him.' And then me and the girl just walk out like nothing happened and enjoyed the rest of the night."

"God, man, you're fucking nuts, you know that?" Jones, the team's medic, a short black man with a funny attitude off duty but a dead serious one in the field, shook his head and placed four cards down, "Four eights-"

"Bullshit," Foley stated. Jones, grinning, flipped the cards over, revealing indeed four eight cards. The sniper slammed his fist onto the table.

Across the bunker, in the Night Stalkers area, Warrant Officers Jack Hughes and Paul Howe were playing a game of Yahtzee. Hughes, a skinny man with a scruff and a superstitious nature, was up, shaking the cup containing the dice, blowing into it, sometimes blowing kisses, and whispering for a good roll. Howe, a short man with a gruff attitude, watched this in bizarre fascination.

"Hughes," he finally said. His buddy looked up, stopping, "just roll the fucking _dice_ already," Howe laughed.

Hughes made one last shake and blown kiss, and then threw them out. The plopped onto the table and stopped as-

"Snake eyes," Howe grinned.

"Fuck!" Hughes cursed, raising his hand to his eyes and rubbed them tiredly. Howe grabbed the score card.

"So you wanna go with two of a pair on that one?" he asked.

"…Yeah, sure, whatever," Hughes waved his hand in an annoyed manner, saying "just go ahead." His buddy wrote it down.

"Jesus, let's hope you're better in the air than you are at Yahtzee, huh?" he joked.

Hughes grimaced at this. All the pilots treated him like shit around here. Just because he was a nervous guy who didn't stick his neck into hazardous situations. Howe was his only real friend in the unit. But this was his mission. This time, he would prove to everyone he had what it took to be a Night Stalker. "Play again?"

In another area, the Delta Three team was enjoying a game of their own. Kyle Lake, the sniper, a tall, rugged man with a shaved head, and Rich Atkins, the machine gunner, a tall, thin man with a serious military attitude, were playing a game of Clue. So far, it wasn't going very well.

"Your guess," Lake began.

"God, this game is stupid," moaned Atkins.

"Just make a guess," his teammate insisted.

The machine gunner groaned. "Alright, is it… Col. Mustard… in the Ballroom… with the Handcannon-?"

"Oh my God," Lake groaned, throwing his hands in the air.

"What?"

"Dude, we've been through this. It. Is. A. _Re-volv-er_. You fuckwad!"

"Alright," Atkins was pissed off now. He had been in Delta seven years, and he could tell a Handcannon from a normal magnum. He held the little toy up, "look- cylinder barrel, six inches, double edged, six-round shot, probably 50. caliber, this is a damn Handcannon. Clear?"

"Dude, you gotta stop thinking like the Army all the time. OK? It is a _children's game_, a children's _board game_, the fucking," Lake held the box up, "_Parker Brothers_ invented it. I don't think they were ever in the Army. They are not going by military weapon standards-"

"Is my guess right or not?"

Lake sighed, "No, it's not."

"Alright, then what the hell's the point of ragging on me if it's not right?"

As the two friends bickered, Zack Pettigrew, the team's radioman, a tall black man with a shaved head and beard, laughed at them. Those two were like a married couple. He rolled over to talk to Sam Arnold, the Delta Three team leader.

Arnold was a large, portly sergeant who was an old-timer in Delta. He too had seen action from Desert Storm to the present day and was a good leader- even if he _did_ seem a bit arrogant for the other sergeants' tastes. He and Bradley didn't get along too well, but that was old problems. Right now, he was reading the paper, which had come in that morning.

"Man, I tell you, I wonder how those two _ever_ get along in a combat zone," Pettigrew chuckled to his friend.

"It all goes alright in the field, no matter how much they hate each other," Arnold replied, not looking up from the paper. His friend inclined his head.

"What's up in the city?"

"Another couple got butchered about 0200 last night. Cops found them in an alleyway this afternoon," was the grim reply.

"Any clues?"

"No, that's the freaky part. No entry wounds, no weapons, no identity match, just two civilians torn to pieces. Looks like they got into a fight with Freddy Kruger and lost, except it's not claw marks… they're _teeth_ marks."

Pettigrew cocked an eyebrow. "What, like a dog or something?"

"Investigations says that the bite radius is too small… it was almost like another human did it…"

Arnold folded up the paper and clapped his hands together, bringing them up to his mouth.

"It's the same with all the others. Something or someone is eating these people."

"You think that's why we're here?"

"Must be, but why send in a strike force? Couldn't they just get the National Guard to vaccinate the city? Sure would be a hell of a lot easier."

Pettigrew didn't have any ready answers. This whole mission was so top secret, not even they knew anything about it. Usually they got a decent briefing upon arrival, but it was three weeks later and they still didn't have a single clue. True, they had had a few runs out in the city, as civilians, but that didn't tell them what was killing people. He didn't know; the whole thing just seemed too trivial to them.

In yet another end of the bunker, Delta Two was just resting on cots, not doing anything in particular. This was good for Sergeant Bill Waters, the team leader. He was a tall man with a clean shaven face and a good nature. He and his guys were relatively newcomers to the unit, and this was their first real mission. As such, he wanted to do it right. And the best way to do that would be if his men were well rested.

"Hey, Ski, why do you always read that thing?" David Mabrey, the tall, skinny, pale medic on the team, asked.

Matthew Slowenski, the big large machine gunner, was lying on his cot, book in hand. He barely glanced up as he answered, "Because this is the key to Heaven, my friend."

"What is it?" Waters asked.

"The Bible."

Figured.

"This is my ticket into getting into God's paradise. My luck can't hold out forever, and if I gotta go, I'd rather go on the passage if righteousness," Slowenski explained to all of them, "It's my survival ticket."

Slowenski was quite the devoted Christian. Waters had been like that as a kid and he still kinda was, but nowhere near as heavily as his friend was. It was a good thing to have around.

"Well, I dunno about y'all, but this is my survival ticket," Jason Owens, the lean black sniper on the team, held up his M-21 sniper rifle, "The M-21. 22 inch barrel, 7.62 mm cartridge, capable of taking down a target from 750 yards away. The sniping man's best friend."

"How the hell do you work with that thing? It's so damn heavy," Mabrey pointed out, "You'd be better off with this," he held his weapon up, "The CAR-15. Only good up to 200 meters, but has a 5.56 mm cartridge and is light enough to take anywhere. It even has its own scope and, if you can manage it, can fit an M-203 under the barrel. That's a better gun than that heavy thing."

"To hell with you," Owens snapped, "Who cares how heavy it is? As long as it takes a guy down in one hit, I'll live with it."

Waters couldn't help but laugh at little at this. The two were fighting over whose gun was better. He guesses that the next time they were in the field, they'd get a competition going. That was just who they were.

Despite the good qualities of the M-21, there were only two in the unit. The second belonged to Jeff Shipley with Delta Five, a tall silent man with a buzz cut that was right now enjoying **Dogma **with his best friend Mike Bielski, a short blonde soldier with an easy going attitude. Both were professional soldiers, old time Delta, as was their team leader, Joe Sanderson.

Sanderson was short with gray hair and a hooked nose. His was the team that took care of covert ops. missions and as such had two snipers instead of one and a machine gunner. Shipley and Bielski were the two snipers, and machine gunner belonged to Shawn Hallings, the only newby on the team. He had seen a large load of missions, either out front or behind the scenes in a combat zone, but this one took the cake. It was like the C.O. was trying to keep them in suspense. He had made a run into the city just this afternoon, had seen the latest corpses, and he still didn't get it. Why in Christ's name was this happening? _How_ was this happening? And why the hell weren't they being told anything in regards to it? What the hell was command waiting for?

"Hey Sarge?" Hallings, a tall brown haired guy from New Jersey, was regarding his obviously troubled team leader, "You alright?"

Sanderson looked up and snapped out of it. "Yeah, man, I'm good," he answered.

"Shit, Sarge, c'mere. Best part," Bielski grabbed the remote and turned the volume up.

Not long after that, the voice of Jason Mewes' character Jay burst out, screaming "What the fuck is this shit? Who the fuck are you lady? Why the fuck did you hug my head?"

Shipley and Bielski burst out in hysterical laughter. Sanderson smiled and shakes his head. Those two were truly kids.

"Hey Sarge, you OK?"

Tom picked his head up at these words. His squad mates had situated themselves around him, and he knew they were in a last ditch attempt to cheer him up.

"Not really." He figured there was no point lying about it. They could tell anyway that he was in a shit mood.

"What's the deal, man? Talk to me," Cribbs insisted. It wasn't like his best friend to be this bummed out.

"This came in the mail today," Tom tapped the box on the table next to him.

"Oh, the package that was breaking that poor mail clerks arms," Jackson laughed, getting up off his chair and opening the box, "Brownies can't be _that_ bad."

When he saw the contents of the box, his smile faded and a puzzled look replaced it.

"What the hell is all this?" he asked, picking stuff up, glancing at them, then throwing them back in.

"Pictures, CDs… Sum 41, 'Does this look Infected'?"

"Yeah, looks like it to me," piped up Nelson, glancing at the CD before Jackson placed it back in.

"What is all this, Sarge?" Cribbs asked.

"It's… the stuff I left with Anna when I was going out with her," Tom answered with a sigh.

Cribbs and Nelson exchanged understanding glances. Talk about your double-barreled _dump_.

"Ooh, **Advent Children**, definitely gotta watch this tonight," Jackson, even though he had heard what his sergeant had just said, placed the DVD aside, went back to the box, and recoiled in horror as he picked up a pair of boxers.

"OK, I'm not even gonna go _near_ that one-"

"Give me those. You fucker," grumbled Tom, snatching the boxers and throwing them onto the bed, growing red in the face as he did. The machine gunner couldn't help but laugh a bit. And _here_ he thought the Sarge was a virgin.

"Have you talked to her, try and sort it out?" Cribbs asked concernedly.

"She wouldn't write back, I don't even know if she read the letter. Tried calling her, but all I ever get is her roomie or the damn answering machine. So I've come to the conclusion that she wants nothing more to do with me."

This sucked for more people than one. Everyone hated seeing Horan bummed. He was always the most cheerful guy in the unit, even _without_ coffee. Always with a smile on, almost always with a positive response to people. And now, he was a mere shadow of his former self.

Jackson, in a truly last ditch attempt to cheer his boss up, grabbed a can of beer and tossed it to him. "Well, cheer up Sarge! Look on the brightside- at least now you're a free agent, and all those beautiful women are callin' your name. Especially those beauty nurses back at Fort Bragg."

"Hoo-ah to that," Nelson raised his beer.

"Hoo-ah," Cribbs did likewise.

They all looked at Tom, who just sat in silence for a few minutes, his beer completely untouched. He glanced around at all of them. He realized this was all just to cheer him up, and he appreciated them for it. Best play along.

"Yeah, Hoo-ah," he said softly, raising his beer along with them.

But the sad reality was, it hadn't worked. Because deep down, his heart already pinned for someone… someone whose name began with "A".

88888

It was the dead of night. Raccoon City had never been more at peace. In their patrol car, two cops were snacking on donuts while awaiting any crimes that were thrown their way.

"Quiet night, huh?" one asked.

"Yup," his partner agreed, "maybe we can have a peaceful night tonight. No murders."

"Thank Jesus."

Suddenly, they heard a loud collection of moans. The driver looked through the side mirror. His eyes bugged.

A large group of people were stumbling around drunk. It wouldn't have been so nutty if it weren't so many- men, women, hell, even kids were bumping into each other as they went through the night.

The driver, realizing someone sober had to step in, placed his handgun into his holster and turned to his partner.

"Hold tight. I'll handle this," he said.

"Sure, sure," said Cop 2, not showing too much concern. Cop 1 exited and stood in front of the crowd, standing in a stance that would make John Wayne and Clint Eastwood proud in their Western movies.

"Alright, break it up people. It's dangerous in the streets this time of night these days. I think y'all better just head on home," he called out.

The only reply was another chorus of moans. One of the strangers staggered towards Cop 1. He literally looked like the living dead. His skin was pale and his eyes were hazy and unfocused. If the officer didn't know any better, he'd swear the guy had actually been dead a few days.

"Sir, I suggest you go home now. This is a dangerous time now and I'd hate for more innocent people to have to- HEY!"

The man had just tried to swipe at him. Cop 1 backed up and whipped out his handgun and aimed it in the air.

"I'm gonna fire a warning, and you'd better back off."

The man looked at him with an expression that gave him the appearance of having the mentality of an infant. He staggered at him again.

"Alright, I'm warning you. You'd better-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!"

The man had suddenly taken his arm and took a gigantic bite out of it. Cop 1 pushed the guy off him and in doing so, dropped his handgun. He bent down to retrieve it, but the rest of the group suddenly sprang to life and crowded him, ripping at his skin and tearing him to pieces.

"Hey, AH, GET OFF, GET AWAY, GE-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAh!" he screamed as he was steadily devoured by the horde.

"Jesus…fucking… CHRIST!" Cop 2, having witnessed the entire ordeal, sprang out of his seat and scrambled for the drivers seat. He grabbed for the keys- but to his horror, he realized that his partner had them.

Frantic, he reached under the hood and grabbed the wires to try to hotwire the car. He pressed them together, trying to start them.

SMASH! Those things had just smashed the window. Their hands reached out to grab him. Falling backwards, he tried to kick them away, smashing his foot into their heads. He reached behind, trying to grab the Remington Tactical he had underneath the passenger seat. His hand groped around for the beloved shotgun.

SMASH! The passenger window was smashed. Frantic now, his hand finally found the barrel. He grabbed it and swung it up and grabbed the end. He aimed it at the drivers' window and pulled the trigger.

BOOM! The spread projectory round tore through the ranks, reducing the numbers. Cop 2 quickly spun the gun around and fired another round, blowing the second threat away. SMASH! The back windshield was knocked out. Not even looking back, he aimed the shotgun and quickly fired another quick round.

He then placed the shotgun down and went back to the wires.

"_sizzle_" VROOM! The car started. He slammed his foot on the gas and floured it.

Down the street he went, not even taking time to acknowledge the fact that the entire city was a ghost town. He just drove until he reached the park and then stopped. He grabbed the comm. link and screamed into it.

"10-Charlie to HQ! There is a-a large crowd of hostile civilians… they just tore my partner to pieces! Request back-up, repeat, I NEED FUCKING BACK-UP, OVER!"

_"Roger, 10-Charlie, where's your current position, over?"_

But Cop 2, unfortunately, didn't hear this last, as he just realized that, just maybe, that last shot he had fired back there hadn't really done the trick. He hadn't heard too many screams…

"You're right behind me, aren't you?" he said softly to himself.

A soft growling answered this. Whimpering slightly, he placed the link back in its holster and, slowly, reached into his glove box and took out his handgun. The clip was loaded. He took several deep breaths, then let out a loud howl and turned around.

The car began rumbling and bumping as shots were fired, 15 loud rounds tearing through the night air, loud screaming emitting from the car. Suddenly, the gun stopped, as did the screaming.

SPLAT! Blood flew across the front windshield, followed by hungry munching and ripping sounds. Amongst it, a voice from a lone radio rang through.

_"10-Charlie, missed your last, please repeat location, over… 10-Charlie, do you copy, over? 10-Charlie?"_

_

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_

And _that_, ladies and germs, is how it really happened.

Yeah, I replaced the two snipers in Delta Five with Shipley and Bielski. I had wanted to make a memorial of the original two, but now I realize that's not a good idea.

I only hope you welcome me back with open arms and enjoy the new story.

Review please.


	2. Suiting Up and Moving Out

5 reviews… grins I'm back, baby.

Now, normally, I don't do this, cause… I just don't. But I've seen others do it, so it doesn't hurt to thank the kind reviewers:

Jamie Gartland: Thank you kindly. Your reviews especially are always greatly appreciated on here.

FlyingAlpha: Thank you as well. Yes, I've seen and read. Good story. But this will be different.

Victor Charlie:… well… Jesus, I don't…really know _what_ to say for yours. Um, the bold-faced… I dunno, I just thought, since they were movie titles, they'd get bold or at least underlined. Don't question the weird way I do things please, as I often don't get them myself. The characters, if you'd read the last version, you'd already know the characters by heart, this chapter got more familiar with them though. As it continues, hopefully, you'd give a rat's arse. The story is told through multiple 3rd person P.O.V's- that's the way it's always been and that's the way it's gonna stay. And this story is trying to fit under my storyline, not Bowden's. If I fail… well, I'll try not to fail.

Raven Thornheart: Thank you also. Your reviews as well are greatly appreciated.

Tillmer: Glad to see you've always liked it. I replaced the two because it also kinda degrades them a bit. And yes, of course the Night Stalkers stay in the air. I can't think of anywhere else they would be.

That's it, I believe. Now enjoy Chapter Two.

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Chapter Two: Suiting Up and Moving Out 

"Horan… Horan! Wake up!"

Tom was rudely shaken awake by none a very nervous voice and even. The factor of sleepiness and the obvious hang-over made his eyes blurry as he tried to make out who it was.

"Whoever this is, you have two seconds to get the hell away from me before you understand what it feels like to get a bullet in the heart," he growled.

"It's Hughes, man. C'mon, get up."

Tom's vision finally cleared up, revealing the scrambled image to be that of his chopper pilot. He automatically went to his clock and groaned; it was 5:42, the earliest he had been woken up on this deployment. Usually, they could sleep in a little if they'd been up all hours, in his case, drinking his problems away, to little to no avail. Not this time, he guessed.

"Hughes, you'd better have a good fucking reason as to why you're waking me up at quarter to 6 on a Friday night," he said.

"It's Saturday morning, num-nuts, or did you forget the fact that the AM thing meant '_morning'_?" Hughes snickered; always the jackass, "and anyways, Sullivan called a meeting for the team leaders and pilots. Now come on, get up."

Tom groaned again and snuggled back under the covers, "Alright, just give me five more minutes-"

"No, NOW." Hughes threw the covers up and flung them away. He grabbed the weary Delta sergeant and hoisted him up, "Come on, put your pants on and let's go."

"Alright, alright, you go on." Tom insisted. Hughes just blew out heavily and stormed off.

Tom wearily sat up, put his pants on, and began tying his boots on. Jackson groggily picked his head up on the next cot.

"S'going on, Sarge?" he asked, "It's fucking quarter to six."

"I dunno. Something about a damn meeting," the sergeant answered, "Go back to sleep, man."

Jackson didn't need to be told twice. He was already out like a light. Tom got up, dressed in cargo pants, T-shirt, and boots, and went over to Cribbs' cot and shook his friend awake.

"Cribbs. CRIBBS." He whispered.

His buddy shook awake, "Wha? What's going on?"

"Staff meeting. C'mon, get dressed."

Minutes later, Tom and Cribbs were arriving at the Briefing Room, where Captain Sullivan, the overall Delta commander on this mission, and his staff presided over the meetings and filled them in. The other team leaders were just arriving, some looking just as tired as the Delta Eight soldiers.

"John," Tom approached Bradley, who was rubbing his eyes and yawning, "The hell's going on?"

"Hell if I know. All I heard was 'meeting, urgent'. That was all my messenger got out before I threw my alarm clock at him," The Delta One sergeant answered.

"Alright, men, listen up!" Sullivan barked. He was a tall black man with a shaved head and looked like a bulldog, but the men respected him anyway. The team leaders all gathered around as two lieutenants began putting up the maps and grid points of Raccoon City up on the board. Sullivan stood in front of them.

"Alright, early last night, a unit from the R.P.D., a 10-Charlie unit, was ambushed and killed by a group of twenty to thirty civilians."

Murmurs and whispers emitted from the sergeants. Tom and Cribbs exchanged concerned glances. Sullivan continued.

"Furthermore, the group has also attacked several civilians at points X-Ray and Zulu," he pointed to both locations on the map, "And other locations inside the buildings. All remaining civilians have been evacuated, but there are still growing concerns to the dozens that have been murdered. Because of this, the mayor and the chief of police have requested our presence to go in and eradicate the situation."

At this, all the team leaders finally felt motivated. 'Eradicate the situation' basically was giving them the thumbs up. This was it. They were finally going in.

"In addition, they've requested a joint operation with the R.P.D. forces and an Umbrella Counterstrike Squad that has also been called in. You are to drop into this location here," Sullivan tapped a wide street near the boarder of the city, "LZ Alpha. Set up a blocking perimeter, make sure those things don't get any further into the city. Lethal force is required on all subjects, don't let any live.

"Support: The ground forces will be allowed one .50 caliber heavy machine gun to help quell the group. In addition, the MH and AH-6 Little Birds will be armed with the standard miniguns and rockets-"

"Sir, don't you think that's a little extreme?" Tom suddenly piped up. The thought of lethal force on civilians was hard enough, but miniguns and rockets? The group couldn't be this bad, right?

"Don't look at me, Sergeant. Chief Irons requested this one," The captain answered honestly. Tom sighed. Of course Irons would; he was a sick bastard.

"Alright, individual assignments: Sergeant Martin."

"Sir." Master Sergeant T.J. Martin, leader of Delta Ten, a tall man with a hooked nose and beady eyes.

"You're the ranking sergeant on the ground. Keep the line together at all costs."

"Yes sir."

"Sergeant Sanderson."

"Sir."

"Your team will provide sniper cover from the air."

"Yes sir." Sanderson at first thought he had heard incorrectly. His team was never in the air. Delta One was usually the team that provided support.

But wait- if Delta Five was in the air, then did that mean…

"Sergeant Bradley."

"Sir." Bradley was secretly hoping the same thing. Would this be the mission where his luck changed?

"Your team will be the first one on the ground. You will set up a defense pattern while the rest of the team is inserted."

Yes. Yes it was. Across from him, Bradley could see Arnold's face look both shocked and angry, but he didn't say anything. _Yeah, whaddya say to that, Sam, huh? I'm back on the ground._

"Sergeant Arnold." Sullivan's voice snapped the Delta Three soldier out of it.

"Sir."

"Your team will carry out the extraction procedures. When Sergeant Martin gives you the go-ahead, you will take your team to this garage," he tapped a point on the map about three miles from the fight, "here. There, a group of Humvees have been placed at our disposal. Get in, drive back, and the force rolls out, leaving the other units to finish the job. Clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Alright, any questions?"

None of the sergeants seemed to have any questions, so it was Cribbs who asked, "Rules of Engagement?"

"Defend yourself, if threatened. However, don't let your guard down for a minute."

"When are we going out, sir?" This came from Bielski, who was sitting with Shipley behind the others.

"Early night time, in between 0900 and 1000 hours."

Tom still couldn't process this fully. It was all so sudden; using lethal force on these citizens, people he actually knew. And if it was a desperate situation, why the hell were they going out so late? Captain Sullivan regarded him for a few moments.

"Alright, everyone, dismissed."

The D-boys got up and began walking away, discussing the mission amongst themselves. "Sergeant Horan, you stay." Horan turned to find his C.O. packing everything up.

"Cribbs, get back to the others, tell them to start getting ready," Tom ordered.

"Sure thing, Boss," his corporal nodded, hauling off. Tom returned to the table. Sullivan sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Look, son, I understand that this isn't the easiest mission for you, right here in your hometown. But I'm proud that you're still here. You know you could've sat this one out if you'd wanted to."

"Yeah, I know." The truth was, he had wanted to sit it out. But the prospect of being back home, where his family and friends- and Anna- and maybe being able to see them was just too much. Of course, that was before the news hit him.

"Still want to go in?"

Tom frowned and looked up. Was Sullivan offering him a chance to not go out on this mission? "Sir?"

"It's tough when a soldier is called to neutralize a threat in his home town. I've known guys my whole life, wouldn't go near the trouble. If you wanna stay on rear security here at the base, I wouldn't blame you."

For a moment, Tom considered taking the captain up on that offer. Why should he have to kill people he might know? But then, he realized that if he did, then Delta Five would go in in their place. And that wouldn't be fair to him, or his men, all who had worked just as hard as he had to get there. He was Delta, not a pussy National Guard soldier who only fought when called for. He went into the most dangerous situations to go and kick some ass. If he couldn't even do his job, then how would he handle the rest of his life? Running away from every little situation, no matter how personal, that came his way? Then he'd really be a screw-up.

"No sir, I'll go. I owe it to the men," Tom answered.

Sullivan actually managed to crack a wide toothy smile- the first time Tom had ever seen him do so. He slapped the sergeant on the back.

That's the spirit, son. Alright, get your boys suited up. Dismissed."

88888

"Jackson, when we hit the ground, I want you to check that radio and make sure we get good reception in case we need air support."

"You got it, Sarge."

All around, the Delta ops. were suiting up, checking what they would need, leaving what they didn't in their duffel bags. On this mission, however, they pretty much just took everything, no matter how trivial- on a night mission, with no one knowing the outcome, each and every trinket and gadget they had seemed to serve a purpose.

Tom examined his firearm. It was a CAR-15, a very reliable weapon, as it was light and maneuverable, with thirty-round detachable clip and scope, and could switch between burst and single shot. Since he was an expert marksman, he always kept it on single- no point in wasting a lot of ammo. Once he was sure the rifle was in working order, he went to his sidearm- an M-9 Beretta, a very reliable .45 caliber pistol with a 15-round detachable clip. Tom was known to be quite the dual-wielder on the training grounds- one was standard N.C.O equipment, and the other was a gift from his dad. But tonight, he was only bringing one- no room for playing tonight.

He then went on to his other gear- eight M-67 fragmentation grenades, ball-shaped explosives that were useful in battle; six M-18 smoke grenades, used for securing LZs and making it hard for enemy scouts and armor to identify them; six M-84 "flashbang" stun grenades, especially useful for blinding an enemy and clearing rooms, which was Delta's main specialty; Passive night vision goggles (PNVs), their eyes during the night; five Claymore mines, which during this fight would set up a minefield with the combination of the other teams' Claymores to make a minefield to help them out; and some C-4 plastic explosives, which, though they didn't look like much, were probably the most useful demolition since the Composition B. Tom knew this was a hell of a lot of stuff, especially since he would also have nine clips of CAR-15 ammo, three clips of M-9 ammo, his canteen, his trusty combat knife, and, because he was team leader, a pair of binoculars. Hopefully, he would get rid of the stuff he didn't need.

Nelson, however, had a lighter load, despite his role as medic. He decided not to bring his M-18s or C-4; instead, he carried a medical bag filled with IV bags, plasma, sulfa powder, small bandages, Compress bandages, and morphine. His weapon was also considerably lighter- an MP-5 semi-automatic submachine gun, which was an ideal weapon for night missions requiring stealth missions, as it held a 30 round detachable clip and could be taped to a second one for easy reloads, a flashlight under the barrel, and a night-vision scope on the top. He also built a flashlight on top of his helmet, which would be easier for when he was helping wounded in dark rooms.

Jackson, who would be acting as both radioman and machine gunner, carried an M-249 machine gun, affectionately called the SAW (which stood for Squad Automatic Weapon), which held a belt of 200 rounds from a detachable ammo box under the barrel. He usually brought about two or three extra belts, but tonight, he decided to take about three extra belts. Just in case. He hoisted his radio onto his back- a SINCGARS, just in for this mission. Before, he had had to work with the AN/PRC-77, but this new one was supposedly better. He also carried the standard load as his sergeant did.

Cribbs carried an M-4 carbine- a light gun, relative to the standard M-16, had a capability of full-auto and single shot. It had a 30 round clip, and an effective range of 360 meters. A useful weapon for a Special Ops. soldier. In addition, he had a M1911 .45 pistol, which only had a seven-round clip, but they were very powerful.

The rest of the soldiers packed their stuff the same way. Some brought a little more ammo. Some decided to ditch the knife. Others packed more C-4.

"Foley," Connors laughed at his friend, who was examining his night vision, making sure it worked, "why the hell are you gonna waste your time bringing that thing? It's not gonna be that dark, and we'll be back before long. 'Sides, those things are too damn fragile."

"I'd rather have them with me and not need them than need them and not have them, y'know what I'm saying?" the sniper insisted, taking them off and placing them in his pack before checking his rifle. Connors shook his head before going back to his machine gun, but stealthily added his night vision to his gear.

Over at Delta Two's area, Owens and Mabrey were arguing yet again about their guns.

"The firepower just doesn't make up for the weight of it, I'm sorry, man," Mabrey insisted.

"Aiight, if that's how you see it, hows about we put a little wager to it," said Owens.

"How so?"

"Whoever gets the most kills wins. And that gun becomes the best. Simple enough for fifty bucks?"

"Deal," Mabrey slapped Owens' hand, confirming the deal.

"My God, you guys, show some respect, huh?" Slowenski snapped, loading a fresh belt to his SAW, "I mean, you're talking about a city full of innocent people! Jeez, man!"

"Ski, relax. All the innocents were pulled out. The only ones in the city are the ones who got the balls to try and kill others," Owens checked the clip and then slammed it into his rifle.

Slowenski just shook his head and tied his bandana to his head. Waters sighed and loaded up his M-4, all the while more nervous.

This wasn't the kind of mission he had hoped to go all-guns out on. He had hoped, if he had to kill someone, it would have to be in Europe or Asia or somewhere- not some mid-western town out in the middle of nowhere. This wasn't right, in more ways than one. And Waters knew this was just as bad as Horan, who had had to grow up here and was now forced to go in and kill his own kin. If he were in his shoes right now, the Delta Two sergeant wouldn't know what to do.

This was the thing that separated Waters from some of the other sergeants- he was a humanitarian, and he didn't truly believe in this mission. But he knew that if he didn't, more innocents would die. So he would go along and see what it was all for. Every mission had to have a purpose, that's what Sergeant Arnold had always told him. This one was just waiting to be seen.

Meanwhile, the pilots and co-pilots were all having their own separate briefing. Chief Warrant Officer Hal "Popeye" Briggs, the pilot for Star Four One, the lead MH-6 Little Bird, was giving the instructions.

"At 0845, all pilots will report onto the airspace to start up their birds. When we get in the air, it's a five minute flight to LZ Alpha; we're never off the main course. At approximately 0905 hours, my bird will touch down and drop in my team, signaling the beginning of the operation. When each pilot has dropped its team, they will fly into a holding pattern to provide support for the ground forces. Howe, Wilkes."

"Yo," Howe called out. Hughes smirked a little. Howe had been a pilot so long, he didn't even go by rank anymore. They were all pretty much one in the same, but Hughes hadn't really adapted to it yet. This guy was a pro.

"Since you've got Delta Five on your benches, you will have the unlucky honor of heading the holding pattern. Don't screw up, clear?"

"Sure, Boss," Howe rolled his eyes to Hughes and to Howe's co-pilot, Howard Wilkes, a beefy man with a good forty years as a pilot. Both sniggered.

"Be advised, guys: This is supposed to be some real serious crap. Something out of **Assault on Precinct 13** or something. And they will be trying to kill those guys, and maybe us, depending on what kinda weaponry they've got. So stay alert, keep your guard up. I don't want to lose any pilots to a RPG round. Clear?"

"Right, Boss," the pilots all chimed in. Briggs grabbed his helmet.

"Alright, guys, dismissed. Good luck." He walked out. The rest of the pilots got up and left as well.

Hughes started walking away when he felt a hand tap his shoulder. Howe and Wilkes were right behind him, both with big grins on their faces.

"You alright, man?" Howe asked his buddy.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm cool," Hughes replied sheepishly, "I'm just a little…"

"Nervous?" Wilkes finished, his grin widening.

"Yeah."

"Don't sweat it, man. Just don't fall asleep at the wheel, you'll be fine," Howe laughed, walking off with Wilkes.

Don't fall asleep- that was the least of Hughes' worries. But he'd do it. This was his mission.

"Bill," Arnold sat next to Waters, who was nervously tapping his fingers on his gun, "how you doing?"

"I'm alright, Sam," Waters answered, not looking at his comrade.

"Hey look: I know you don't wanna be doing this. But, y'know what? We got to. It's our job. When we put the uniforms on and when they drop us into that city, all thoughts of innocent and guilty, of civilians and rebels, just discard it. Once the shooting starts, all you better think about is firing in the direction of those trying to kill you. If you can't do that, then more innocent men and women- and kids, hell- will get torn up by these things. OK? You need to think, not of who you're killing, but how you can prevent more of who they are killing. You see what I'm saying?"

Waters finally turned to face Arnold. He nodded. He may not understand fully, but it was enough to boost his confidence. He'd be a savior, not a villain. This thought comforted him.

"Tell you what- when we hit the ground, you stick with me. I'll make sure you get it right, alright?" Arnold insisted, holding his fist out.

Waters slammed it. "No problem, man. I watch your back, you watch mine."

Arnold winked, slapped his buddy's back, and walked off. Waters definitely felt calmer. Despite the prick he could be, Sam knew how to do things, how to take care of the guys. It calmed him. This will be OK.

Meanwhile, Tom, having finished packing his gear, was slaving over the telephone, trying desperately to see if Anna was still there and that she was safe. The damn ring tone went on forever. And his patience wasn't.

"Come on, you bastard, come on. Anna, please, for the love of God, pick up," he snapped nervously, biting his thumb nail. The ring went on for some time. Then-

"Hi, you reached Anna's and Kelly's dorm. Sorry, we're not available right now, please leave a-"

BAM!

Livid now, Tom slammed the phone on the receiver again and again, screaming something with every slam.

"STUPID! GOD! DAMN! PIECE! OF! SHIT! SON! OF! A! BITCH!"

"HEY!" Sanderson's angry voice shouted behind him, "Don't take it out on the phone. Some of us still need to make a call."

Tom threw the phone down and walked away, hands on his head. He sat down and left his head in his hands, furious and helpless.

Sanderson looked over at him, then handed the phone to Shipley, who went on to call his wife while the sergeant went to go talk to Tom.

"Horan, what the hell's your deal?" he asked.

"You know what my goddam deal is," answered Tom, not looking up.

"Right. Anna," Sanderson sat down next to the younger team leader and sighed, "Man, I know how you feel-"

"What the hell are you talking about? You have no goddam idea what I'm feeling right now."

True. Sanderson had never had to worry about his wife being trapped in a city with a band of murders. But still, he had to say it.

"You're right- I don't," he said, "but I do know one thing- it's gonna be alright."

"How do you know?" Tom finally looked up.

"Because I'm gonna make sure we get her out in one piece, if she's still in there. We'll do it, man, alright?"

Tom nodded softly. With any luck, she was already out. If not…

Those murdering bastards were seriously gonna catch some hell.

88888

At last, it was time. The sunny day had been replaced by nighttime clouds. Lights had been turned on, the air deadly calm. And the Delta boys were suited up.

Tom waited impatiently for the call- the one for them to finally get onto the birds and get this shit stain of a mission over with. He wasn't the only fidgety operator- Jackson couldn't sit still. Nelson loudly chewed a piece of gum. Cribbs constantly ejected the clip from his .45 and then slid it back in again. And there were others that were just as bad.

Shipley and Bielski weren't. Both thought of this simply as a game. Nothing ever got them down. They had been best friends since basic and before- kids growing up in the fields of Kentucky. They had long since made it a rule that if they felt good about things, then everything would be OK. Right now, they finished up watching Groundhog Day and finished checking their guns.

"Hey, man, whaddya think- M1911 or M-9?" Shipley held both handguns up.

"Uh… I'm partial to the M-9, but I think you might wanna bring the former," Bielski said.

"Yeah, does pack a hell of a punch," his buddy agreed, stuffing the .45 in his holster.

Hallings was giving his SAW a routine check-up. For a newbie, he certainly knew his stuff. But that wasn't what worried Sanderson. The kid looked like one who would fall apart once rounds went over his head. He needed watching over.

Meanwhile, Bradley had just returned from the bathroom when he ran right into Arnold. The two old Desert Storm vets just stood in stony silence, not taking their eyes off each other. The grudge obviously still there.

"So… finally back in the field," Arnold started.

"Yup," said Bradley.

Silence.

"Well, I guess it was about time command threw you a bone."

"Yup."

That was all that really needed to be said. Bradley walked past him and towards his area when-

"John."

Bradley turned around. Arnold hesitated, but finally said, "Good luck out there."

The Delta One sergeant at first couldn't believe his ears. Arnold, wishing him luck? But when the man grinned at him, Bradley knew a truce of some sort had finally been reached. Not that they were friends yet- but they would at least fight together. He grinned back.

"Yeah. You too," he said.

Arnold nodded, said, "See you on the ground," and left for the bathroom. Bradley went back to his men, where Jones slammed a clip into his MP-5.

Suddenly, the loudspeakers made that noise when something was too close to it, the high-pitched "oooom." All the soldiers cursed it to all sorts of hell, especially because they all knew what it was for.

Then, at long last, the call:

"_All personnel, out on the airspace. Pilots, start your helicopters."_

At this, the bunker sprang to life. The soldiers grabbed their weapons, slung their bags across their backs, placed their helmets on their heads and snapped the goggles in place, and ran half-sprinting to the air strip. Tom, being a former track runner, ran a little ahead of the others. But it wasn't all because of that. He knew that the sooner they all got on the birds, the sooner they'd move out. And he was now itching to get out there and kick some very serious ass. They were gonna rue the day they had picked a fight with Delta.

The MH-6's had little benches in which the four-man teams sat and rode the flight out. In a way, it was kinda like Space Mountain at Disney, but a lot cooler. Right now, he took a seat on the pilot's side of the bird, where Hughes already had the engines rearing and ready to go. Cribbs sat next to him, and Jackson and Nelson took up seats on the other side of the bird.

In the cock-pit, Hughes and his co-pilot, Warrant Officer Chuck Greeno, began setting the systems up. Landing gear, radio, both rotors- all was looking good.

"Four Eight, all systems go," Greeno responded into the comms link.

One by one, all pilots radioed in, saying they were all set to go. Briggs got on his to radio the Command Room, where Captain Sullivan and his staff would be watching the battle from the many monitors to make sure everything went smoothly.

"_Command, this is Four One, we are all systems go, ready for launch, over."_

"_Roger, Four One, green light, repeat, green light. Good luck."_

Bradley felt his chopper make the pivot-left turn, then began to gradually go up into the air and already felt the feeling he had when the roller coaster went down the steep hill. He smiled. He hadn't felt this happy in years. Finally, he was going back into the thick of it.

The choppers all followed in suit, with all the boys passing by screaming at the top of their lungs, finally going out.

Tom looked out into the horizon. Somewhere, out there, a hornets nest was brewing. And he was gonna go exterminate.

_This is gonna be fun_, something inside of him said.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

* * *

… eh… this chapter could've been a lot better. 

A few notes:

Foley's quote on PNVs- I say that often on why I lug around all my school books every day. _All _of them.

Tom's phone slamming- I've done it. No lie. That phone can be a real bitch sometimes.

Weapons, grenades, and all that stuff- _that_ was tough. I actually had to go on Wikipedia to look a few things up, mainly grenade types and night vision and radios.

Well, tell me what you think. I'll try to have the next chapter out, hopefully today.

Review please.


	3. The Roadblock

Yup, here it is.

Enjoy:

* * *

Chapter Three: The Roadblock

The hum of the MH-6's rotors usually put Tom in a calm state of mind as he went out on missions. Not this night, however. His nerves were shot up as his mind raced- who did he know that were dead? Who had made it out? And who were in the crowd doing the killings? This was what occupied his mind right now. He'd worry about the rest on the ground.

Finally, looming in the background, came their target: LZ Alpha.

Over the radio, Tom heard Briggs' voice.

"_Four Five, come about and set up holding pattern over LZ, over."_

"_Roger. Four Five inbound, setting up holding pattern."_

Sanderson felt the chopper begin its left-side circle over the LZ. He and Bielski were on the left side facing up. Shipley and Hallings were on the right side that dipped down on every right hand turn.

Four One flew inwards, dipping lower as it was about to land. Sergeant Bradley, along with the rest of his team, fastened their goggles to their faces. Bradley readied his M-16. The classic model rifle since Vietnam and before, the M-16A-2 rifle was a light compact weapon with a 30-round semi auto/ automatic fired clip. In Bradley's case, the weapon had three modes, the third being the M-203 grenade launcher, which was a single shot grenade launcher mounted below the barrel of the rifle. This was the standard army gun and, of course, Bradley's personal favorite.

"_Mission launch in three…two…one-"_

At "one", the chopper skidded across the street and to a halt long enough for Delta One to hop off and go a little, safe distance before taking a knee and aim their weapons to secure the perimeter. Dust kicked up in their faces, not much, but enough, but thanks to the goggles, they needn't worry.

"_Delta One is on the ground. Four One, going into holding pattern."_

As Four One took off, Delta One got off the landing strip for the other choppers to come in and land their teams in. Foley got on the roof and secured his sniping position with his M-82A-1 sniper rifle- affectionately named the "Light Fifty" due to its .50 caliber barrel, it was good at a distance of 1800 meters with its 10-round detachable clip.

Connors took cover behind an abandoned Ford with his machine gun- one known to the world all over and loved: the M-60E-3 machine gun, a heavy machine gun with a 200-belt that he kept in an ammo box he had attached to the side of the gun. Normally with a bipod to help with the shooting, Connors decided to not take that- he was such a heavy man, he needn't worry about powerful jerks.

Jones was already out front, setting up Claymores. Like Nelson, he had an MP-5- except he didn't tape clips, and this one was silenced, as he was an infiltration expert. Also, instead of a pistol, Jones carried a Remington 870 shotgun, mainly used by the Air Force, but a good weapon, especially at close distances. Some operators brought shotguns, but Jonesey was the most notable one.

Meanwhile, Four Three had dropped in Delta Three. Sergeant Arnold looked around, saw that Delta One had the position secured, and began setting his team up. Lake got underneath a Jeep and aimed his CAR-15 out in the direction the crowd was supposed to be coming in. Atkins placed his M-60 on top of the hood. Unlike Connors, _he _had placed the bipod on the barrel, so he could have a secure place to lay it down for concentrated bursts.

Arnold and Pettigrew sought cover behind the back of the Jeep, Arnold with his M-4, Pettigrew with his M-16. The sergeant glanced at his watch. Were they too late, or were these things just slow?

"_Delta Two is on the ground. Four Two, going into holding pattern."_ Sergeant Waters heard the pilot radio as he hopped off with his boys. Right off the bat, without even waiting for orders, Owens and Mabrey got into comfortable sniping positions and trained their weapons straight ahead, both eager to get the first kill. Slowenski sighed and made a comfortable nest out of trash barrels set upside down so he would both provide decent cover and fire his SAW at the same time accurately. Waters checked the sights on his M-4 and too a seat against a trash barrel, taking it all in.

"Hang on, guys!" Hughes called back to the others. Tom, goggles in place, braced himself for the landing.

He hadn't been prepared for the truck, however. Hughes had apparently brought the chopper down a little too low, and the benches- with the soldiers sitting on them- skidded across the top of the trailer. Delta Eight picked their feet up, as so they wouldn't lose their legs. Hughes managed to raise the bird a bit before bringing it down onto the LZ.

Not the smoothest of landings.

The troops got out and glared at the pilot before they took off to their objective. Hughes grinned at them sheepishly as they left before going to his radio.

"Delta Eight is on the ground. Four Eight, going into holding pattern."

As the bird returned to the sky, Tom got his team behind a HUMMER and took a quick look around. It did indeed appear to have been a large problem. Many cars lay abandoned here, some blood-stained. No bodies yet, but… Tom didn't wanna think about it.

To the left-hand flank, Master Sergeant Martin had set up the .50 cal that he himself had brought down and was manning himself. His radioman, Jason Webber, was on his phone already, voices sounding off, saying their positions.

"_This is Delta Four, I've got my team on the roofs covering the north street, over."_

"_Delta Nine, machine-gunner in place, awaiting further orders, over."_

"_Delta Six, last Claymore set, awaiting orders, over."_

All around, the D-boys were setting up, until they had an unstoppable barricade set up. No one was getting in through here.

Tom, Bradley, Arnold, and Waters went to confer with Martin themselves.

"Teams are set up all over this sector," Bradley conferred, waving his hand all over the map all the team leaders had brought in, "I set up my sniper on the roof here to provide cover."

"Our teams are taking cover behind these cars," Arnold waved his hand next, "we've set up little positions to give cover and get a good shooting position."

"Alright, I want snipers to aim for the head only and I want machine gunners to lay suppressing fire all over this sector," Martin pointed to the street they had just finished mining, "everyone else, pick off as many targets as you can from where you are."

He glanced at his watch. "Those police boys and Umbrella fellas are late."

"You trust Umbrella to actually show up on time? Those idiots never know what they're doing," Arnold snorted.

"Why they so interested in helping out, anyway?" pondered Waters.

"Eh, Umbrella employs a lot of civis in this town. They probably just wanna make sure they're OK," Bradley shrugged.

"Wait… yup, here they are."

Martin listened as the police sirens came, faint at first, then louder as they approached. Then they saw him- squad cars, followed by a large S.W.A.T. truck. They swerved to make a little blockade of their own. Then the officers got out- armed with shotguns and handguns. The S.W.A.T. guys were armed with MP-5s.

From the air, two Chinook helicopters flew overhead, pausing long enough to drop in a large company of Umbrella soldiers. These men, dressed in green jackets and, for some, skull caps, carried specialized M-4 Assault Rifles with scopes and flashlights. Right now, they joined in with the officers in setting up the defense, though Tom noticed a good number of them going off to do their own separate thing somewhere else.

The leader of these men went to confer with Martin.

"Captain Roberts, U.B.C.S.," he introduced himself.

"Master Sergeant Martin, U.S. Special forces," Martin shook his hand. He had not told them what unit they really were- Delta was secretive that way. "Do you have any idea as to what's going on here?"

"This incident is the result of a viral accident in one of our laboratories. As such, we cannot allow it to further itself in this city," Roberts answered.

Before they could ask questions, Roberts excused himself and went back to the men. The sergeant all looked around at one another, neither one getting at all what the captain had just said.

"Alright, guys, go back to your teams, tell them not to fire until the command is given to do so," Marin ordered, shaking it off.

The team leaders nodded and went back to their groups. Tom sat down next to Jackson, who had his SAW trained dead ahead, nervously awaiting the group, and filled them in on what he had just heard.

"'Viral'? What, like a disease or something?" asked Jackson.

"Guy said it was in a lab. What kind of experiments were they doing?" Nelson pondered.

"Look, all he told me was that it was some sort of accident, nothing more," Tom told them, "right now, let's just get ready."

All too soon, the noise that had been ringing in their ears since they had landed was gone, as the initial rush had ended. The teams all sat, most with their weapons trained, others just getting a little bit of rest. Arnold actually managed to doze off for a little bit. He couldn't help it- it was just too quiet out.

Waters chewed softly on a Hershey's bar. Slowenski had gotten out his Bible and was reading Deuteronomy or some damn thing like that. Owens and Mabrey were still in the position they had put themselves in, not looking up for a second. Waters glanced at his watch. Where _were _these guys?

Tom sat with his back against the HUMMER and rested his head back. He was pretty tired- a result of his being awoken early by Hughes, added to the fact that last night, he had tried to drink his weight in Millers Light. He picked his head back up and something fell out of the inside of his helmet. He looked down, picked it up, and examined it.

Her picture. Christ, he had forgotten it was in there. Most of the guys did that- put their girlfriend's or wife's picture in their helmets. He had forgotten to take it out before they had left. Now here he was, staring at her beauty and wishing this whole thing hadn't have happened.

But it had. Hence why he was where he was.

He quickly placed it back in his helmet securely and shrugged it off. He looked out for a second, saw nothing, then looked back. Still no sign of those guys. Where-?

"HERE THEY COME!"

* * *

Basically, the same as before. The next chapter will be just like the third chapter of the last story was pretty much- everything that happened before happens now. You don't remember it, don't worry, you'll see it whenever I decide to post that chapter.

Review please.


	4. Fight of the Century

Chapter Four up.

Big battle scene. Enjoy.

Gravedigger: It'll get better. Just… bear with, OK?

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Chapter Four: Fight of the Century

"HERE THEY COME!"

Tom quickly jerked around, CAR-15 ready. All around, the troops yanked themselves out of their reveille and got ready. Sergeant Arnold sprang to life and right away began ordering his men to hold their fire.

Through the haze and smoke, silhouettes of figures began to emerge. One at first, then two, four, eight… more still. Soon, what had once been an empty street was now filled with many men, stumbling as though they had had twelve Miller Times in one night.

Hands gripped on the .50, Master Sergeant Martin was shouting to his men to hold position. Captain Roberts did the same with his men. The force of some hundred men now all trained their weapons on this one street.

"What the hell?"

Tom looked at the group through his binoculars. There was something too off about them. Their skin looked like shit- literally like the living dead. Their eyes had that glassy, unfocused look to it. They moved with arms outstretched, and, listening carefully, he could hear a loud moan emitting from their mouths. For some reason, the sound of those moans sent a shiver down his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"Stay sharp, guys," he ordered. There was something about this that really wasn't right. He was starting to realize why everyone was so damn terrified.

Sergeant Waters had to keep rubbing his eyes to make sure he wasn't imagining this. He wasn't; large bodies of civilians, all looking like something out of a Romero movie, coming at them. Memories of nights as a kid when his older brothers made him watch Night of the Living Dead played in his head. It was one of his old nightmares revisited. He gulped.

"Hold your fire," Martin reminded them. Not that they needed reminding.

Tom fixed the sights on his CAR-15. He wanted to make sure the first shot dropped the guy. He wasn't too concerned now with killing a familiar face; right now he was starting to doubt they were even _human_.

SMASH! "chomp!"

"YEEEOOOOOW!" Cribbs suddenly jolted in pain and ripped away, clutching his now bleeding shoulder. One of those guys had come up right behind them and had taken a bite right out of his shoulder. The man, the piece of flesh still clamped between his teeth, looked hungrily at the Delta soldier.

Now up close, Tom could definitely see the un-canniness of these people. This one's eyes were pretty much translucent, his teeth sharp and decaying, fingernails and hair long and the former sharp. With a clear good look at his skin, the sergeant could've sworn this guy had been dead for days.

As he lunged at them, Tom whipped out his trusty Beretta and aimed it right at his chest.

"Sir, I request that you back off," he ordered. The man paid no mind, and instead, went at him, determined for another bite. Tom didn't bother to hesitate.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

The three bullets tore through the chest, heart, and gut. The bullets ripped into the skin, mangling it and pretty much decimating the skin tissue. The last one had clearly pierced the heart, embedded deep in it. The man paused and looked down at three death-dealing wounds.

And from that point on, things got _really_ weird. The man all of a sudden snapped his head back up and snarled an angry, inhumane snarl. Tom blinked, not believing his eyes. True, the .45 wasn't all that of a reliable gun in the field, at least not at a distance, but three bullets at point-blank range? How in the hell was this guy still standing?

"Fucking hell?" Jackson aimed his SAW right at him and fired another burst into this things chest. These bullets were bone mangling, and Tom definitely saw the ribcage twist, but this guy just shook it off and came at the sergeant again.

"_click_."

Cribbs had gone forward and pressed the muzzle of his M-4 against the thing's brain. BAM! He fired the bullet that tore in and out, with blood and brain matter flying out with it. The soldiers even saw the steam pour out as the creature finally fell on his back and this time, did not get back up.

"OPEN FIRE!"

All of that happened in a matter of seconds, though it seemed like hours. By the time they had finished the guy off, Martin had given the order to open up. All at once, the blockade spring to life with fire. The .50 was the loudest, and its bullets and tracers tore through ribcages, mangled legs, and tore heads off at the neck.

Tom went back to his perch and aimed through the sight. One guy was about 150 meters away from him, to him, well within the range of his beloved rifle. He brought his CAR-15 to his shoulder and took a quick bead on the guy's head. He couldn't miss. The bullet zinged by just as soon as he pulled the trigger and the man fell back as the top of his head disappeared in a flash.

Smirking, no longer feeling like a wuss, he pat Jackson on the back, who was taking short, concentrated potshot bursts at a group off to the left 200 meters. The sergeant had to say, the guy got his shit together when danger faced them with its ugly head in the air. He went over to where Nelson was patching up Cribbs.

"Hows it looking?" he asked, kneeling down next to them.

"Bastard took a chunk clean out of my shoulder. JESUS!" Cribbs hollered in pain as Nelson shot some morphine in.

"Easy, easy," the medic said softly, applying a compress bandage to the shoulder.

"Jesus, they're NOT STOPPING!"

Tom looked back out into the field. The ones that weren't hit were completely un-wavered by the wave of lead flying at them and still proceeded with their attack. But the real horror was that of those who were so torn up by bullets that they were pretty much just a head, one arm, and half a chest, nothing more, were still mustering all their strength to try to get at them.

_Oh no way_, was what ran through his mind right now as he went back to his perch. "Alright, look alive, guys, look alive. Those stupid sons of bitches are trying to break through, don't let up!"

From their perch near the low-roof house, Sergeant Bradley was aghast when he saw that, after all the mayhem wreaked on those things, they still had the balls to go at them like that. Hell, some of them didn't even have _those_ anymore. He had seen a lot of things in Delta, and a lot of fights, but the enemy to this one seemed to be on a whole new level. The first one Bradley had shot, he had gone through half a clip on semi-auto blast, and the guy still wasn't on the ground. It was, purely put, bedlam.

Above him, on his perch, Foley was sniping away. His beloved Light Fifty made a large crack sound whenever he fired. He fired at a target 80 yards away, and there was a spurt of pink brain matter as it tore through the skull and killed him.

Bradley watched this, and, as he saw the headshot, which was the only wound on the body, something clicked. He got on the radio on his helmet and called into the whole unit.

"The enemy is susceptible to headshots. Repeat, AIM FOR THE HEAD!"

Made sense; every bullet Tom fired was a head shot, and everyone he hit went down, whereas Jackson ripped them in half with his machine gun and they still kept coming. The force began taking more concentrated headshots. However, with every enemy brought down, more seemed to pop up.

Waters was reloading his M-4. This was probably his fourth clip, and so far, he had only killed about twelve of them. These things just didn't seem to want to die.

Behind him, Owens' rifle fired with a deafening BANG! and another went down.

"Ha! Score's at twenty-three now, dipshit! Whaddya say to that?" he called over to Mabrey.

BAM!

"Twenty-_five's_ what I say to that, Pea-brain," Mabrey answered.

The look on Owens' face could probably match the violent look on the engaging enemy's face as he went back to his rifle.

Jones, firing his Remington 870 at a group that had miraculously come within 50 feet of Delta One and in doing so got their heads blown off simultaneously, finally figured it was time to set the C-4 off. He had hoped, what with the way these guys were moving, that one of them would trip a Claymore and set off the minefield. But apparently, dumbasses that they were, they still managed to navigate themselves around the mines. So he grabbed the detonator and, after firing a shotgun shell single handedly, pressed the trigger.

BOOOOOOOOOOOM!

All the C-4 went off simultaneously, the explosion also setting off the Claymore charges. The end result was a loud explosion that could greatly rival a landing missile. The enemy was engulfed in the fiery inferno. When the blast finally settled down, there was a loud cloud of smoke, signaling the demise of the threat.

A loud cheer and a unanimous sigh emitted from all the members of the ground force as they cheered their victory. Waters blinked. It was over. This had been a lot easier for him to handle than he had thought.

At the Jeep, Cribbs lit a cigarette, completely unnerved by the blood smeared on his face and his shoulder, which hadn't stopped bleeding yet.

"Some battle, eh?" he grinned at Tom.

"You said it," Tom sat next to him and sighed a huge sigh, exhausted. He looked towards the smoke cloud, which had not cleared up yet.

"What was up with those guys?" he pondered.

"Who knows? Just glad it's over," Cribbs exhaled the smoke.

"Oh my God… THEY'RE STILL COMING!"

Tom and Cribbs' heads immediately whipped back towards the battleground. Both pairs of eyes nearly bulged out of their heads and both pairs of mouths fell agape.

The smoke had cleared only to reveal a decrepit, battered, torn-apart enemy force that was still coming at them with an unwavering force, as though they had not just been burned to death. More had yet again joined their ranks and the bloody holes that were in their ranks had been repaired by new recruits, returning it to a battalion sized army.

"Oh, you've gotta be fucking me," Tom said softly, not believing this.

Without another word, both soldiers picked up their rifles and again started firing. They were soon joined by the rest of the exceptionally weary troops as they grudgingly began firing again.

Tom aimed his rifle at a target and fired. The man fell. He fired it at another target and she, too, went down. Over and over again he fired, but the more he shot at, the more came. Over time, he was starting to feel piss off. Who were these bastards? What right did they have to be coming at them like this? And why the hell weren't they dying?

What had happened to these people?

"Arnold!" Martin yelled over to the Delta Three sergeant. Arnold bolted over while Atkins gave him covering fire with his M-60. Martin looked down at the sergeant.

"Time for extraction. Take your team and get to that garage. Hurry up or we're screwed. Get going."

"Delta Three, on me!" Arnold called, tapping the top of his helmet. Atkins pulled his M-60 off of the roof of the car and Lake crawled out from under it as they followed Pettigrew after their sergeant. They were soon gone in a hurry.

"Webber!" Martin next called to his radioman, "Get on the horn and tell the halos to get Delta Five onto the ground. Now!"

88888

Up in the air, Hughes heard over the radio Briggs' next orders to Howe.

_"Star Four Five, come inbound and land Delta Five at the LZ, over."_

_"Roger. Four Five inbound."_

Hughes didn't envy this request. Howe was now flying into the hornet's nest, the heaviest part of the shooting. At least when he had dropped his team in, it had been quiet. But now was when it was at its most dangerous point.

Which was, of course, just the way Howe like it.

"Alright, hang on back there," Wilkes called to Delta Five. Sergeant Sanderson gave him the thumbs up and ordered his men to put goggles on. Shipley and Bielski both grinned. It was on.

The chopper began its decent. It was still at a high altitude, but all was going according to plan.

Until-

"_whoooooosh_!" BOOOOOOOOM!

Something slammed into the rear propeller of the Bird. The aircraft rocketed forward, the team desperately holding on to their benches to keep from falling to their deaths. Howe quickly straightened his bird back into position.

_"Four Five, are you alright?"_ Popeye's voice came in over the radio.

"Yeah," Howe was inhaling and exhaling heavily. He was a tad bit shaken up. "Yeah, we're good. All systems looking normal."

_"You look like you got clipped pretty good. Why don't you set it down on the airfield, have someone check it out?"_

"Affirmative. Dropping in team, falling back to airfield, over."

Sanderson looked over and saw that the tail was pretty much destroyed. How this thing was still flying straight was a mystery.

Suddenly, on the ground, about four blocks away from the fighting, he saw it. A flash of light, and the presence of what was undoubtedly a missile launching its way right towards them.

"RPG!" he screamed, but to no avail; the rocket hit again, this time clipping the main rotors. The shrapnel miraculously missed the soldiers, but the rotors were torn to shreds. To Sanderson's horror, the chopper began its spinning decent.

In the cockpit, Howe and Wilkes had just managed to secure the loss of the tail rotor when the second rocket hit. Then they lost all flight controls completely. With both rotors out of control, there was little they could do as the helicopter began spinning. Howe got on the radio.

"We've lost the main rotor. Four Five going down, repeat, Four Five is going down, latitude 54 degrees, longitude 48, do you copy, over?"

_To hell with this_, Sanderson though. With every ounce of strength that he possessed, he slid back off his bench and into the little crawlspace behind the cockpit. On the other side, Hallings was freaking out. There was no way the sergeant was gonna let this kid die here. Sanderson grabbed the nervous gunner by the scruff of his neck and yanked him into the crawlspace.

"Jeff," Shipley heard Bielski over his helmet-link.

"Yeah?" he radioed back.

"See those dumpsters down there?"

The spinning was not yet at its serious point, so Shipley could indeed make out the two dumpsters on adjacent ends of an alleyway.

"Yeah."

"Count of three, we're gonna make a jump for 'em, copy?"

"Better than dying in the crash, I read you, Mikey."

"Aiight… one, two… THREE!"

Both jumped at the same time, weapons and all, and fell the remaining twenty-five feet into the dumpsters, landing with a loud thud.

"Four Five going-" But before Howe could finish the transmission, the rotors clipped the entry to the alley. The chopper skidded through the alley and then plowed into the ground cockpit first. It skidded to the other end of the alley and smashed through the brick wall, then came to a halt, the rotors either torn up by shrapnel or torn up by the crash.

The radio went deadly silent.

Fear flooded over Hughes like one of the many waves he used to ride in Newport, Rhode Island. He flew his chopper over the crash site and looked down.

"You see any movement?" he asked Greeno, who was looking out the other side.

"Nada, I got nothing," his co-pilot replied.

This wasn't good. This so wasn't good. Not part of the plan. Howe was supposed to land his bird, drop the team in, and then get the hell out. Plain and simple. Oh, _how_ simple it was!

But now, he didn't even know if anyone was alive down there.

88888

Tom had just reloaded his gun and began aiming again when he heard the first BOOM! He looked up and saw that Delta Five's Bird had been hit. He saw smoke pouring out of the tail rotor.

"What the hell?" he proclaimed aloud.

"Sonuva…" Jackson stood up and just stared at it.

And then, just when they thought Four Five had it under control, they saw another rocket shoot up. They followed the smoke trail in time for them to see the giant explosion to the main rotor. Tom literally saw the shrapnel pierce through the metal rotors as if they were noting but paper.

Then, he felt his heart sink down to his stomach as he watched the Bird begin spinning, slow mostly, picking up just a bit of speed. He saw two soldiers, who he'd recognize anywhere as Jeff Shipley and Mike Bielski, jump from the Bird and plummet into a couple of dumpsters. And then they heard it crash into the alleyway- the horrible screeching noise it made as the rotors tore against the walls of the buildings. It was concluded by a large crash, and then smoke poured from the wreckage.

Tom stood up and tried to crane his neck. It was hopeless- the crash had to be miles away, though it had seemed so close. His mind wandered towards the other two, Sanderson and Hallings. He remembered the promise Sanderson had made him back before they took off. _No_, he thought, _there's no way Sandy could be…_

Waters was pondering a different question: Where the hell did that RPG come from? More importantly, who had fired it? And another winner, why? What could possibly be gained by shooting down a U.S. Army helicopter with highly elite soldiers on board?

"Waters!" Martin's voice brought him out of his thoughts and sent him running over to the master sergeant, "I need you to take your team on a reconnaissance mission over to the downed bird. Hurry up or those things are gonna be all over them. We'll make sure Delta Three picks you up. Get going."

Waters nodded and tapped his helmet. Slowenski slowly got up, big man that he was, from his comfortable spot and ran over. Owens and Mabrey scrambled off their bellies and the four took off, soon lost down the street.

Now, instead of a replacement team, they were now two teams short. Not much, but an eight-man gain/loss could be the difference between life or death in the field. Now, the remaining teams tried their best to hold off the enemy.

Delta Nine's machine gunner used sweeping fire to keep the enemy at bay, but the enemy proved to be too over whelming for him. He stood up, emptying his belt, and tried to reload when they fell on top of him and, to the horror of his teammates, began devouring him, tearing out is entrails first. Jackson, witnessing, almost threw up.

"KEEP 'EM BACK! KEEP THE-AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

They had broken through. The pandemonium that reigned was massive. Cops and S.W.A.T tried to pull away but were being yanked in and torn apart by these beings. The U.B.C.S refused to go down without a fight, throwing grenades, firing point-blank at the enemy. But in the end, most, if not all, went down.

"HOLD THE LINE! HOLD THE FUCKING-"

BOOOOM! Another RPG appeared out of nowhere and hit the .50's position. It, Mater Sergeant Martin, and Private Webber were soon lost in a fiery inferno.

"FALL BACK!"

The dreaded call. Retreat. Once it was heard, there was no stopping it. A mass retreat was deadly, and it accomplished nothing. More especially in this case.

The enemy, disregarding all rules of engagement, fell upon all of the living and began to feed off of them. Cops, Delta, S.W.A.T, U.B.C.S, it didn't matter- all were victims.

"Pull Back!" Bradley hauled Foley off the roof and began running. Connors provided suppressing fire as Jones cleared out, firing both his MP-5 and his Remington at once. When his buddies were clear, Connors turned and ran for it.

The Delta Four men all hopped off the roof to begin their run, but this proved to be a mistake; the creatures were waiting for them, and they jumped straight into a slaughter fest. They never stood a chance.

"PULL BACK, GODDAM IT!" Tom screamed to his men. Jackson ran first, firing his SAW in short bursts and then turning completely and running for it. Cribbs went next, but tripped and fell. Tom and Nelson ran up and threw an arm over both their shoulders.

"You alright, man?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, yeah, just… a little woozy," Cribbs answered, pulling off both and running forward.

Nelson turned and fired a three round burst into the nearest head, then turned the other way and ran. Tom fired three rounds into the fray and, with one last look at the mayhem, ran for it.

He caught up to Jackson and grabbed the radio to call to Hughes.

"This is Horan! We have a break-through in our lines! Need immediate evacuation, over!"

He paused for a second. But all that greeted him was static.

Up ahead, Nelson and Cribbs cleared the path of enemy. Tom stayed on the radio.

"Hughes, pick up and get us out of here, goddam it!"

Still no answer. Tom didn't know it yet, but neither Hughes and Greeno, or any other pilots in the fleet, could even know someone was radioing them.

They were on their own.

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Yeah, here it is.

Hope you find it somewhat enjoyable.

Review please.


	5. The Separated Ground Force

Chapter Five in the hole.

Now, from here on in, the story gets a little more organized. We'll still be switching in-between the teams, but it's not gonna be like BAM you're with one, then BAM you're with another. There will be page splits and stuff like that.

So… yeah.

Jamie Gartland: Thanks again. I think I may have an idea. It's not Harry, but it's in the ballpark.

Enjoy.

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Chapter Five: The Separated Ground Force

Things had gone from bad to worse in an awfully fast hurry. The D-Boys were now scattered over most of the town, the surviving men limping away from the battlefield. There certainly weren't many of those, either- only two teams had actually made it out. Not including Deltas Two and Three, who had left earlier. The remaining assault force were now either at the vehicles, moving towards the crash site, or just running for some form of shelter.

Things started out well from Capt. Sullivan's point of view. The force had landed, gotten situated, and by the looks of things, all was going steadily.

When the battle began raging, however, he began to realize something was off. Especially when the minefield went off and they still kept coming at them. It was the first time the captain, a veteran of everything since Vietnam, had ever seen something like this. Just what the hell was going on out there?

The next big shock came when Four Five went down. When the first rocket hit, he stood up, but when the second one came, and the bird began spinning, the room was soon erupted with noise.

"What the hell just happened down there?" Sullivan asked.

"Um… somebody shot our bird down," answered Lt. Carl Riley, his deputy commander.

"No shit, I hadn't noticed," the captain snapped angrily, "I wanna know who, how, and why. NOW!"

Now, he was watching the enemy force roll over the roadblock. Everyone was getting butchered- police, Umbrella, and Delta, all at once. The staff looked on horribly as the soldiers were torn apart and devoured. It was just too gruesome.

Sullivan planned the next movements in his head. All wasn't lost yet. He still had four, maybe five teams down there, and they were his best. If he could try to contact them on the radio, then he could consolidate them in one position, have the convoy pick them up, and then roll them all out as planned. It seemed fool proof.

Except now, apparently, the radios weren't working. Briggs had radioed back saying that he was unable to call them in. The entire force was stuck on the ground with no communication between themselves and their pilots.

He chewed his cigar. They had a lot of work cut out for themselves.

88888

"SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR!"

All four Delta Eight slammed their weight into the door and tried to hold it from giving way. The creatures on the other side were pressing all their weight against it and some had managed to slide their arms in.

With a newfound adrenaline rush, Tom slammed into the door over and over, forcing all of the arms to retreat except for one, which was slammed on so violently that it fell off. The enemy fell back and Cribbs began locking all the locks on the door.

"What the hell are those things?" Jackson demanded.

"I don't know," was Tom's answer.

"How could they do that? What the hell happened to them-"

"I DON'T KNOW! ALRIGHT?"

BAM! One final push against the door. Cribbs backed away, hand over shoulder.

"This is insane," he said, "There's way too many of them."

"Nelson, go check for a back door or something," Tom ordered. Nelson nodded, grabbed his MP-5, and left.

"What the fuck are we gonna do, man? How we gonna get out of here!" Jackson was growing hysterical.

"Jackson, calm down already," Cribbs sat down with a groan and changed his compress.

Tom leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. It was all happening way too fast. The images of his comrades getting eaten still soared through his head. He was sweating like mad, a mix of adrenaline rush and fear.

"Oh... Jesus Christ, Sarge!" Jackson pointed towards the arm, which was now groping towards them, trying to latch onto them. Tom groaned. This _was_ ridiculous.

"All boarded up," Nelson came back, MP-5 held in one hand, "this door's only way out. Windows boarded and no back door. We're trapped."

"How's it looking out back?" Tom asked. Something inside told him some measly little boards weren't gonna stop them.

"Well, they're moving around, but keeping their distance. Dunno what they're waiting for, we're all just ripe pickings in here," Nelson looked back at the end.

"Maybe they've had enough for one night," thought Jackson hopefully.

"Don't count on it," Cribbs grumbled.

"Jackson, cover the rear," ordered Tom. Jackson swore, grabbed his SAW, and stomped off, "And check the radio while you're at it."

"Got it, Sarge," The gunner called back.

Tom then turned to Cribbs and Nelson. "Nelson, there an upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"Go up and make sure it stays secure. Lock doors, board windows, shut chimneys, whatever you can do. If you need to blow something up, get it done. I want that upstairs wrapped up tighter than a wasp's ass. Go."

"I'm on it," and the medic was again gone.

"What can I do, Sarge?" Cribbs asked.

"Keep an eye up front," his friend answered.

Cribbs aimed his M-4 single-handedly at the door. Tom went into the kitchen to look for some food.

Whoever had lived here before they had come a.) was very messy, and b.) obviously hadn't gone shopping recently. Only a few carrots in the fridge and pots on the stove containing some sort of soup were available to them. He searched through the cabinets for additional rations, but sighed in frustration as he came up empty handed. He began shredding up the carrots and adding them to the stew to try and give them a little flavor, then poured them into bowls for the guys.

He passed Nelson as the medic came downstairs.

"Upstairs secure," he said.

"Here," Tom handed him a bowl and gave him another to pass to Jackson. He then went and gave one to Cribbs.

"Cheers," he said, taking a bite. Cribbs did the same.

From the backroom, Jackson took a bite and immediately gagged.

"Aw! Christ! What the hell is this stuff?" he exclaimed.

"Dunno," Nelson sniffed it, "smells like meat."

"What's going on?" Tom had just walked in with his bowl.

"This soup tastes like shit, Sarge. What's in it?" demanded Jackson.

"Whatever was in it originally and some carrots that I added."

They all looked inside the pot as they took another bite. Something suddenly bobbled up to the top. Frowning, Tom reached in and grabbed it, swishing the soup around in his mouth. He picked it out and held it up to the light for everyone to see.

It was an _eyeball_.

A _human_ eyeball.

All didn't speak, their mouths full of soup. Then finally there was the sound of three mouths furiously spitting out anything and everything in their mouths onto the ground. Then they dropped their bowls (or in Jackson's case, threw it against the wall) and backed away.

"Aw, Jesus… WHAT THE HELL'S _IN_ THAT THING!" Jackson screamed.

They stared in the bowl as an ear popped up next. Tom, glad his hand was gloved, slowly reached in and felt around. Surprisingly, he didn't need to dig too far; his hand caught a strand of something and he yanked it out.

What it was made all of them wish they had never eaten.

It was a skinned human head, the eyes and ears- and the tongue- were gone. What Tom was holding it by was what was left of the poor soul's hair.

"Oh, I think I'm gonna be sick," Jackson groaned. Apparently, his stomach thought so too, because soon enough, he was at the sink, retching.

Tom just stared at the head in sheer horror. Then, another thought hit him suddenly.

"Cribbs," he said. Throwing the head down, he ran into the next room, Nelson right behind him, "CRIBBS!"

They barreled into the room and found Cribbs sitting on the boxes, snacking on the soup.

"Mm. Tastes good," he said to them, "what's in it?"

Both of them just stared at him. He shrugged and went back to eating.

"You gonna tell him what's in it?" Nelson whispered to Tom.

"Somehow, I think he's better off not knowing," Tom answered, "Go check on Jackson."

For the third time, Nelson left. Tom leaned against the window and looked out it. Those things were still outside. It was amazing- in the space of half an hour, he had been scared out of his wits and horrified to the point of hurling up everything he had eaten in the past 72 hours. His mind wandered back to the others back on the LZ, their torn up remains, and the realization of their predicament finally hit home.

_So we're the only ones who got away,_ he shook his head, _Christ, what the hell are we gonna do now?_

88888

At another part of town, underneath an abandoned ambulance, two pairs of eyes were watching for enemy activity.

Those eyes belonged to Sergeant Bradley and Corporal Jones. Bradley looked sharply, intently, at the area, seeing if the danger was anywhere but where he was.

"Keep your eyes open," he whispered to Jones. The other man nodded, eyes fixed dead ahead. Bradley crawled out from underneath to the others.

Foley and Connors were huddled by the fire, shaking a little. Not entirely from the cold, though. Experienced troops as they were, that whole ordeal just brought it to the next level.

"Were we the only ones who got out of there?" Foley asked.

"I think so, man," Connors said sadly. His buddy looked at their sergeant, who sighed.

"I think we have to assume for the time being that we're the only team still in one piece," he told them, "we need to look for a way out."

"Where? You saw the place on our way in, it's shut up tighter than a present on Christmas," Connors exclaimed.

"Then we _make_ a fucking exit," snapped Bradley, "I ain't dying in this shithole. And neither are you."

That shut the Brooklyn machine gunner right up. Jones came up from underneath.

"Sarge, I don't think it would be wise to put a hole in the wall-"

"Why not?" Bradley demanded.

"Cause it's obviously up for a reason. And that reason would be making sure none of _them_ gets out. That's what that Umbrella captain was talking about- this is a virus. And these people are infected."

"Get down!" Foley exclaimed. The Delta One soldiers hit the dirt.

Two U.B.C.S soldiers stepped out to greet a third that had just come down the street. The three shook hands as the D-Boys watched.

"Man, are we glad to see you, Mac," one exclaimed.

"Mutual," the newcomer told them, then looked back, "We got a convoy of sorts up ahead. Bunch of the guys who made it out. We're taking a beating, though."

"Where they at?" the final man asked.

"That way," the other man pointed, " 'bout twenty yards in. Look for Corporal Newman."

"Roger," and the two men took off. The third man proceeded with his search, whatever it may be.

Bradley got onto his hands and knees to look after him until he disappeared from sight. Then he motioned for the other guys to come up with him.

"Maybe we should go with them," Foley said hopefully.

"No way. You heard the man- they're getting hit hard. I'd rather be just us and not getting attacked than be with a large group getting the shit kicked out of them," Connors proclaimed.

"Agreed," Bradley looked towards the southern exit, "This way."

So they took off, completely avoiding the Umbrella convoy and going the opposite.

Had they gone, they could've been a tremendous help to those U.B.C.S personnel.

But they didn't… and they weren't.

88888

Up in the air, Hughes was still circling around the Howe crash site when Briggs came on the radio.

_"Four Eight, come in, over."_

"Roger, Four One, what's up?" Hughes called in.

_"Any luck with reaching Delta Eight over the radio, over?"_

"Negative, not yet."

Hughes and Greeno had been trying to reach the Delta boys for almost an hour, but still nothing. And it was weird- there was just nothing. Not even feedback.

"Man," he said, "I'm not getting so much as static on this thing. Check the frequency again," he ordered his co-pilot.

Greeno checked the designated frequency that the soldiers and pilots had agreed on, then checked the radio. Perfect match.

So why the hell weren't they getting anything?

Hughes radioed in to Briggs, asking if the frequency worked on the SINCGARS or not. Since this was the first time they were being used.

_"Yeah, they should,"_ Popeye answered, _"Keep trying."_

This was a mess. The mission they had planned so carefully all day had fallen apart. Everyone was pretty much dead. Those who weren't were on their own, holed up wherever they could find cover.

Nobody knew _where_ Deltas One and Eight were. They had a bead on Deltas Two and Three, but because the radios were being assholes, they couldn't reach them. So, Waters didn't know about the overrun LZ, and Arnold didn't even know a bird had gone down.

And… no one knew if Delta Five was OK or not.

It was bad. But it wasn't hopeless yet. They were still alive. As long as that belief held true, there was still a chance for a comeback.

Four Eight stayed in the air longer than the others. Eventually, they would go back for a gas break, but for now, they stayed. Capt. Sullivan had ordered round the clock sweeps, meaning they weren't going to be getting any sleep for a while.

Didn't matter. They were Night Stalkers, after all.

And alive or dead, he was getting those boys home.

---------------------------------------------------

Yeah, that's that.

Major note: Cpl. Newman is _not_ one of mine. He belongs to Jamie Gartland, from his story _To The Last Man Down_. If you haven't read it yet… read it.

That's about it. Review please.


	6. A New Player

Chapter Six up.

Forgot to mention before, but this story covers _all four days _of the outbreak- from September 28th to October 1st.

…Actually, I think the outbreak itself was a week and a half… aw, screw it.

Jamie Gartland: If you're still interested in doing Lt. Peters for the Re0 story… I'm not entirely sure how it works, I dunno if you send me your version or I send you mine or anything like that, but just let me know if you are, OK?

Well, enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Six: A New Player

At around that time Delta One took off, Delta Three had finally arrived with the vehicles at the LZ. Sergeant Arnold, driving the lead Jeep, was furious. When they had arrived, the things at first wouldn't start. Something up with the engines or something. Lake fixed it with a good kick, but that was the least of their problems. Those things were all over the streets and battles with them had held them up. Now, finally, they had arrived.

But it was too late.

Arnold stood up in his seat and surveyed the battle scene. The bodies of the enemy they had slain lay in the streets, but that wasn't the extent of the damage done. Weapons, torn clothing, smoking vehicles… and blood, red stains literally painting the streets red, the cars covered in it.

Horrified, he sat weakly back down. "Shit," was all he could whisper. They had taken too long.

The team dismounted and just surveyed the scene. All were thinking the same thing: This couldn't be happening. There was just no _way_ those things could've broken through. They had no weapons… how could _they_ have won? This just didn't add up.

Arnold was the first one to snap out of it. "Alright, Lake, Atkins, see if you can scrounge up anything useful. Pettigrew, try and get us a line out. I'll see if I can find anyone still alive. Stay close to the cars."

The team spread out, moving slowly amongst the remains of the battlefield. It didn't take long for Lake to realize that something was wrong.

"Where are the bodies?" he asked out loud suddenly.

Atkins, lifting a belt of 60 ammo, stopped. "What?" he asked.

"If we lost… where are the bodies?"

The two looked around. Lake was right. Except for the corpses of those that were shot in the head, there were absolutely no sign of the remains of their comrades anywhere. Both got exceptionally spooked out.

"OK, I just had the sudden desire to get the fuck outta here," Atkins stated.

"Me too, let's hurry this up." They went back to their work.

Arnold went around the area where Delta Ten had been positioned, and as he checked the blown-up body of Private Webber, he heard a soft moan of pain. He quickly pulled some rubble aside-

-And unearthed Master Sergeant Martin, still conscious despite the fact that the lower half of his body had been completely blown away and all the entrails were now massing towards the new exit hole. He was ghostly pale.

"Shit!" Arnold pushed away all the rubble and held the dying master sergeant in his lap, "T.J.! You with me?"

Martin's eyes sprang open. "Sam…" he mustered weakly, "They broke through… everybody… it was a massacre…"

"Just hang on man, alright? We'll get you out. LAKE! Get that goddam medical bag over here, NOW!" The sergeant screamed to his teammate. Lake got up and double-timed to the Jeeps.

"Shit!" This came from Pettigrew, furiously from the radio.

"What's wrong, Zack?" Arnold called over.

"I can't find a goddam signal. All I'm getting is feedback," came the dreaded reply.

"Did you check that thing before we left?" Atkins yelled.

"Yeah, three fucking times. Sounded fine."

"Alright, Zack, stay with it man," Arnold ordered, "Atkins, Webber's radio was working earlier. Have a look around for it. Go."

"On it."

Lake ran over with the medical bag. Both of them began treating Martin, even though all three of them knew it was hopeless. Still, they did what they could to make sure the man's final moments were the most peaceful.

"Teej," Arnold pressed again, "Did anyone… did anyone make it out?"

This was most crucial. If there was a chance _one_ soldier was alive, that could be the difference between the fight being lost or won.

Martin weakly shook his head. "Not…not many," he said, "Some of those mercenaries… the ones from Umbrella, you know… I… sent Delta Two off… towards the crash site-"

"Wait, wait… Crash? What crash?" Arnold broke in. What with all the confusion and the hustle back at the garage, he had not even known of Four Five's collision course to the ground.

"Four Five… got shot down… Waters went over to… make sure that…"

"Sarge." Arnold turned to glance at Atkins.

"Found the radio," Atkins sheepishly held up the blown-up and twisted metal radio that was still smoking.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," Arnold groaned, "What next?"

"_God fucking damn it_!" Pettigrew again screamed at the radio. Martin groaned in pain. Arnold strengthened the grip on his hand.

"T.J., come on, man!" he yelled.

"Sam…" Martin gasped for air, "Sam… Horan…and Bradley… they got their teams out. They're alive. Get…Get them out…Get the…"

"T.J.!" Martin's eyes slid out of focus and his breathing stopped. Arnold felt his hand go slack and he closed his own eyes. "Damn it," he cursed.

He closed his buddy's eyes and laid him with his hands folded on his chest. He grabbed the blanket from the medical bag and laid it across him. They would have to leave him there for now. They had a job to do. They'd come back later, but until then, Arnold made sure he would be undisturbed and unnoticed by anyone or thing passing by.

He went on to Pettigrew, who was now trying to clean out the radio in the attempt to find anything that wasn't supposed to be.

"What's up?" the sergeant asked.

His corporal just sighed in frustration. "I don't know," he said, "I don't know, I don't fucking know. I'm thinking either someone put in the wrong key, or they put the wrong crystals in, or something, but this thing just won't work."

"Well, if it's useless, dump it," Arnold ordered. Pettigrew went and dumped the radio in the back of his Humvee.

"What if someone's jamming us?" Lake came in with, "I mean, what if someone just doesn't want us to get in contact with the outside?"

The thought had briefly crossed Arnold's mind even before Lake thought it up. Was someone deliberately jamming the systems so they couldn't get a line out? Who would do that, in this kind of situation, to take advantage of trapped soldiers in a hostile red zone?

But he said nothing. To cause panic, especially in the status the force was in, would be suicidal.

"Atkins, grab anything useful?" he asked.

Atkins sighed, "Some ammo, grenades… a couple U.B.C.S Molotovs… that's it. The rest is gone."

"Alright, everyone, listen up," Arnold said to everyone, "We got a bird down in the city. Delta Two went there to try and pick up any survivors. I say we hit their location first and give them a hand. Next up- Deltas One and Eight are also up and at 'em. Once we get the crash site secured, we'll rendezvous with them, roll out, and get the hell out. Questions?"

"Gonna be awful hard without comms to get to all of them," Atkins, ever the pessimist, stated, "How we gonna pull it off?"

"We'll manage, Rich. Alright, if that's all, then mount up, ladies! We gotta crash to secure."

The D-Boys quickly jumped into their vehicles. Arnold led them in his Jeep, followed by Pettigrew's Humvee, then Atkins' and finally Lake's. All four vehicles had mounted .50 cal machine guns, but the Jeep also had a rocket launcher mounted on the back for heavier assault targets. They were only dangerous when there were more than one person in the Humvees to operate the turrets, but for now, they just prayed that the enemy didn't know how to shoot.

They sped off to their best guess of the crash site, with every prayer intended that this time, they would not be too late.

88888

Up in the air, Hughes was still trying to get a line on the radio. Hopefully, Jackson would get the hint and pick up. What the pilot didn't know was that the Delta Eight soldier was trying to do exactly the same thing. Neither having a single shred of luck.

"Jack… JACK!"

Hughes had been so absorbed in his work (and with trying to fly the bird at the same time) that he hadn't realized that Greeno had been trying to get his attention. "Yeah?" he said.

"Get a load of this," his co-pilot inclined his head out the portside window. Hughes turned the bird right to get a glance.

A helicopter was flying into the designated "red zone" carrying a large crate under its body, linked up to the bird by a long chain. But something was wrong…

"That's not ours, is it?" Greeno asked.

"I don't think so," Hughes got on his radio, switching to the air traffic frequency, "Four One, this is Four Eight, over."

_"Roger, Four Eight. What's your status, over?"_

"Popeye, we've got an unidentified aircraft flying into the red zone. Be advised, he's carrying some sort of container, over."

In his Little Bird, Briggs cocked his head to see the newcomer fly into the red zone. _What the hell?_ he thought. No one was allowed to fly in a military fly zone, everyone knew that. What was this joker's game?

"Star Four One to unmarked aircraft, you are flying in a military red zone, request that you turn around and head back to your landing zone, over."

There was no response. Either the pilot had his radio off, hadn't comprehended, or just didn't give a rat's ass, because he just deliberately ignored Popeye's call and continued flying, as if he was searching for something.

"Star Four One to unidentified aircraft, be advised, if you continue to ignore our warnings, we will be forced to shoot you down. I say again, leave now or you will be shot, over."

This time, they got an answer. However, it was not the one they had been hoping for. The voice that came through was low and raspy, like something out of those freaky phone-stalker movies. The very sound of it made the hairs stand up on the back of Hughes's neck.

_"I'm doing a very important job. Don't interfere,"_ it said.

With that, he unhooked the chain under his bird and dropped the crate into the middle of the street. Hughes barely had time to look down to see what it was when the other pilot, in what seemed like an inhumane move for a bird that big, swung his bird around lightening speed and made off for home, probably thinking he'd be safe now.

He was far from it.

_"All units, we have a drop and run over the city. Open fire."_

Hughes swung his bird towards the retreating aircraft. "Dropping the bitch!" he shouted as he jammed his fingers onto the butterfly trigger. The two mini-guns opened up tearing through the frame and the propellers, peppering them full of holes. Four Six and Four Three opened up at the same time, and the combined strength of all three was truly marvelous to behold. Four Four fired one of the rockets into it, which, on impact, tore the aircraft in half. Both halves plummeted into the ground and blew up in a fiery inferno complete with portable mushroom cloud.

Courtesy of the Night Stalkers.

Satisfied, Hughes turned his attention back to his radio. But as he turned his chopper around, his eyes glanced down at the container that had been dropped.

The walls of it had come down, and it was open and empty.

Hughes suddenly felt chilled to the bone. What had been in there?

88888

Sergeant Waters barreled down the street, his team directly behind them. They hadn't gotten very far from the LZ. Those creatures kept slowing them down, and there were also these dogs that seemed to be in the same kind of state as the people were. Outwardly, they still looked like shit. And inwardly, they wanted to kill.

Needless to say, it kept the D-Boys occupied.

"Alright, I'm going across," Waters said to the guys. They were crouched behind some dumpsters, getting ready to again move, "Slowenski, Mabrey, cover fire. Owens, with me. Go!"

He got up and bolted across the street, Owens right on his ass. Slowenski leapt up and fired a burst from his SAW, while Mabrey, belly on the ground, fired a few aimed shots from his CAR-15.

Waters skidded into a mailbox and barreled over and behind it. Owens leapt over right behind him and aimed his M-21 down the street.

"Sarge, I got you covered," he said. At that time, there was a BANG! from his gun and an enemy, a freshly placed bullet hole in his head, fell to his knees and then to the ground.

Waters breathed in and out several times and then jumped out and ran for the opposite corner. He was almost there when-

SLAM! A giant crate landed two feet away from him, causing the ground near him to shake. He flew himself backwards, gun faced at the crate as it opened-

-And revealed probably the ugliest human being known to human. No… this thing couldn't _possibly_ be human. It was tall and green, with many scars running rampant down its face. The Delta sergeant recoiled in horror just at the sight. It looked like a six, seven foot man that was no longer that- _man_. This thing had only one open eye, the other stitched shut, and that eye was fixed solely on Waters. In one hand, he held a Gatling machine gun and in the other, a RPG rocket launcher.

Waters gulped, but lay firm, with gun straight as a stick at the thing in case it decided to have a good ole' fashioned Western gun battle. He had a feeling, though, that he wouldn't win; the thing looked like it would take a lot of bullets, and he didn't want to know how many were in that Gatling gun. The thing still hadn't moved from its spot. It still just stared at him with that one eye. Waters flipped the safety off of his rifle.

Then, finally, it spoke. Just one word, and in a voice that made the hair stand up on the back of Waters' neck-

"_Staaars_."

With that, it turned around and walked slowly down the street, just like a calm Sunday afternoon stroll through the park. It soon walked right through the mist and out of sight.

Waters regained his breathing. He hadn't even been aware that he had been holding it in.

"Sarge!" The rest of Delta Two ran up to their squad leader. They stared off into the mist where the monster had just left through.

"What the fuck was _that_?" asked a terrified Mabrey.

"Not one of God's works, that's for sure," said Slowenski.

Waters couldn't understand what was going on. Everything about this fucking mission was fucked up; the attacking enemy, Four Five's sudden crash landing, and now this son of a bitch. It just made absolutely no sense, nothing a Special Ops. Division should be dealing with. Right now, all he wanted to do was get to the crash, get the team out, report back to the LZ and get the hell out of there. Of course, he had no idea that at that moment, the LZ had been overrun and what was left of the ground force was limping away from the massacre. And with the radios out of commission, there would be no way of him knowing, either.

But that's not what worried him now. That thing and the crash were.

"Let's get going," he said, "Delta Five isn't gonna hold out forever."

And so they moved out again, repeating the steps they had already and trying to forget the monstrosity they had just witnessed.

But although they didn't know it yet, they would have several fierce and tragic encounters yet to come with the monster that, for years to come, would only be known as:

_**Nemesis.**_

88888

At the make-shift Umbrella Headquarters situated just outside the walls of Raccoon City, sitting in the main tent was Dr. John Isaacs, one of the head researchers. He was sitting at his table, with his laptop in front of him showing a map of Raccoon City.

"Sir." His aide, Elena Wirtz, had just walked in.

"Was the package successfully dropped in?" Isaacs asked.

"Yes sir. Unfortunately, our helicopter was shot down. The military's wrapped the city up tight from the air, apparently," she answered.

The doctor said nothing. Instead, he reached for his phone and dialed a number.

"Huntington. Get your pilots up and ready. Tell them to start inserting the rest of the Special Forces units into Raccoon City… Just do it."

He placed the phone down.

"Sir?" Wirtz prodded.

Isaacs just smiled.

"We're going to see how the famous "Dreaded Delta" Squadron does against _our_ Special Forces.

* * *

Long time to write. Eight pages, eh, I like it.

Yes- The battles between Delta and Umbrella will commence. Because c'mon- one of the most elite army divisions against a bunch of undead corpses is just too damn _boring_. You all know it.

Also, decided to go with the Nemesis from Apocalypse. You'll see why.

Hope you all like it.

Review please.


	7. BreakOut

Chapter seven up.

Captain Kurt Hoffman: God bless you. Every review on here helps. Already went through the other stuff in my reply to your review, so… enjoy.

This officially begins Day 2 of the outbreak. Yeah, I know, not much for Day 1, save the battle and the separation. But there's not much to Day 1 to begin with, Part One of Jill's adventure already took place, and I wanna roll into the rest of the story, so onward to Day 2.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Break-out

"_thunk" "thunk" "thunk" "thunk"_

Tom tapped his knife against the wall out of sheer boredom. He glanced at his watch. 1:36. They had been on the ground for a little over four hours now. It was technically the second day of the outbreak. And they were still stuck in that Godforsaken house with the decapitated head floating in the pot in the kitchen.

After the soup incident, the situation settled down somewhat. The only real concern was the fact that those… whatever they were were still clawing at the door, trying to break it down. The sergeant doubted that even the reinforcements they had stacked against it would hold them off forever.

"Would you _please_ stop that fucking tapping?" Cribbs snapped, hand covering his eyes, "It's giving me a goddam headache."

Tom sighed and shoved his knife back into its sheath. He glanced back at the door, at the sounds of those things scratching, clawing, trying to break through. It was nerve-racking. He didn't want to be killed by those things, but just waiting for them to break in- that was the killer. It was mental games playing in his head, all sorts of different outcomes, what it might be like.

It sucked.

"Jackson, how's it going back there?" he called back.

No response. Instead, the machine gunner just waltzed right through.

"Nothing," he said, "Not a fucking thing, and it's fucking with my mind. I swear to God, Sarge, I can't take this shit anymore. I gotta get outta here."

"Jackson, calm down, for Chrissakes. None of us can take it either," Tom replied.

"No, seriously, Sarge, I can't deal. Those things are gonna drive me up a fucking wall. I'd rather try fighting out there than being cooped up in here, just waiting for them to break through. Quick and painless."

"The way those things are killing, I doubt it'll be quick and painless."

"Sarge-"

"Just sit the fuck down, Jackson, for Gods sakes."

The machine gunner grumbled but otherwise obeyed. Nelson came in at that point.

"Sarge, we just shut the radio off. We're not getting so much as shit out of that thing," he sighed and flopped down.

"Great," Jackson started, "We've got no communications, it's ten to one between the two parties, and the only food comes from a severed head in a pot. I swear to God, we're all gonna die in this shit place-"

"Jackson, if you do not shut the _fuck _up and sit still, I swear to God, I'm gonna personally feed you to those things myself, understand?" Tom snapped angrily.

His subordinate nodded swiftly, almost scared by his friend's sudden anger.

"And for Chrissakes, Cribbs, can't you do something about that shoulder?"

"It won't stop bleeding!" Cribbs said exasperated, placing another fresh Compress on the

wound, "I don't get it, this is like the fourth Compress I've put on it."

"Nelson, check it out," Tom ordered. Nelson nodded and began checking the wound out. Jackson cursed and went back to the back room.

It was just an overall shitty situation. He was afraid the guys would all start freaking out. And in a combat zone, that wasn't something he needed to deal with. That, and the fact that Cribbs looked like he was he was gonna bleed to death. That wound really did look nasty. Already it had turned purple, and it looked horribly disfigured. And the sergeant had also acknowledged the change in his friends' condition. Cribbs was awfully pale, and his eyes seemed bloodshot. His attitude sucked too- he had an excruciating headache, he was snapping at everything thrown at him, and there were some moments where he looked ready to whip out his .45 and shoot someone.

"I can't figure out what's wrong," Nelson sat back down on the floor, "It's only a bite wound, but there's something just not right about it. Like whatever bit him had hit an artery or something, it just won't quit bleeding. I put some Curlex in under the Compress and gave him a morphine shot just to calm him down."

"Great. Just perfect," Tom said, really not all that ecstatic.

"Cheer up, guys," Cribbs said, shrugging, "At least it can't get any worse."

**BAM!**

The crash was so loud and sudden that the door shook on its hinges. All three men jumped up and aimed their weapons at the door, praying that whatever was banging that hard wasn't going to get in.

"What've I told you about doing that?" Tom snapped.

"Doing what?" demanded Cribbs.

"That fucking 'can't-get-any-worse' bullshit. Every single time you say that, guess what- THINGS GET WORSE!!!"

"Can we please have this conversation some other time?" Nelson came in with.

**BAM! **Another slam.

"What the hell's going on up there?" they heard Jackson cry.

"We may have a problem," Tom called back.

A third **BAM! **and this time, the door almost gave way.

"Scratch that. We _do _have a problem!"

Jackson stalked up and almost fainted when he saw the giant cracks in the door. He decided to just ready his SAW and prepare for breach.

"Get ready for breach," Tom told his men, "Aim for the heads. If we get overrun, we'll fall back to the upstairs, toss a grenade each to weed them out. We're not dying here, you understand me? We're Delta Ops. Meaning whatever comes through that door is gonna get its ass kicked. No man's gonna get us."

And with a fourth **BAM!, **the door gave way.

And what had busted it down was in no way a man.

It was a large, lizard-like creature that stood on its hind legs. It had three razor-sharp claws on each hand, and the look on its face suggested that it saw the four soldiers as food instead of a decent threat. It roared a tyrannical roar, and revealed to them the true terror it possessed.

"Oh, shi-"

Before Tom could finish that sentence, the creature was joined by four others. And behind them, their assailants from the LZ were pushing to get through.

"Does that ass-kicking rule apply to giant lizard men too?" Jackson asked meekly.

The leader roared again. And the attack started.

The lizards came at them. Delta Eight wasted no time. A hail of bullets flew from their rifles and into the oncoming wave. Two fell, pelted in all sorts of places. The other three jumped, one crawled on the walls, another on the ceiling. The other attackers, finally allowed room, pushed in and came in a drove.

"Fuck!" the sergeant screamed. The group backed away, still firing all they had into the giant tidal wave that threatened to engulf them. The more they shot, however, the more desperate their situation got.

The lizard on the roof dropped down and landed on Tom, causing both to fall to the floor. Tom did his best to hold him off, but the hands shot out faster than his 100 yard dash time in track. They went all over the place, claws extracted, piercing where his head was. He dodged every blow as best he could, but he was getting pretty tired.

In a burst of strength, the sergeant slammed his foot into the thing's chest and pushed it up long enough for him to reach to his belt and pull out his trusty combat knife. He lifted it and jammed it into the creature's brain, then kicked it three times off him.

Just as soon as that threat passed, the fourth monster took this one's place on the Delta soldier's chest, trying to do what his brethren couldn't

_Oh, gimme a freaking break, _Tom thought as his struggle continued.

Thankfully, this time it was ended by Jackson and a quick burst from the Godsend of a SAW, riddling the thing so badly its arms were torn off.

The machine gunner helped his team leader to his feet. They surveyed the scene. The room was a mess, and quickly getting crowded. Cribbs and Nelson were doing their best, but it was just too big.

"Shit, Sarge, if you've got a master plan, now would be a time for it," Jackson said between spurts of fire.

"Fall back to the upstairs! GO!" Tom screamed, grabbing his knife and firing his CAR-15 into a few heads.

Jackson covered Nelson as the medic dove for the stairs, then he followed. Tom and Cribbs bolted up the stairs and almost made it to the top when Tom came to a horrifying realization.

Anna's picture was gone.

He glanced back at the mess he had left. There it was. Right at the bottom of the steps, just as he had run up them. And beyond that, the horde was coming closer.

_Just forget it!_ The voice in his head snapped, _it's a fucking picture! You can ask for another one when this is all over! There will be other pictures… hell, other _girls!

_Bullshit._

Taking a deep breath, and praying to God that this would come back to bite him in the ass, he fastened his helmet to his head, fingered his beloved rifle, and head-rolled down the steps. He grabbed the photo and, at the same time, jammed the barrel of his CAR-15 into an attacker's head, and pulled the trigger.

"SARGE, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" Jackson screamed, "YOU'RE GONNA GET YOURSELF KILLED!!!"

Cribbs looked back to see his friend now engaging in a rifle-butt-to-the-head smashing the enemy, and he was quickly becoming surrounded.

"Sonuva…" he groaned, and then passed Nelson his M-4. "Hold this."

"Wait, wha-"

Before Nelson could finish the sentence, Cribbs let out a loud war-yell and thrust himself down the stairs and sank a foot into an enemy skull, cracking it.

"GO! GO!" he screamed, pushing his friend up. Both crawled on their hands and knees back up the stairs with their enemy closing behind them.

CHOMP! Cribbs let out a wild scream, clearly in deep pain. One of the attackers had grabbed a hold and took a deep bite out of his leg. Cribbs fell backwards, soon engulfed by their pressing assailants.

"CRIBBS!!!" Tom screamed as his friends screams were heard amongst ripping and tearing of skin.

He dove back in while Jackson and Nelson opened fire from the top of the stairs. Bullets slammed into backs, chests, and a few skulls, but these things were as relentless as ever. They pressed forward with that vacant expression that both amazed and terrified the living shit out of them.

Tom yanked Cribbs out of their hold and began dragging his heavily wounded friend out of the mess. It wasn't easy; Cribbs was older, and heavier, than he was. He dragged his friend in one hand and was steadily firing his CAR-15 with the other.

A hiss was heard. The final lizard man was moving towards them. And no amount of bullets in his gun alone would do the trick.

"THROW A GRENADE!" Tom shouted up to Jackson.

"I throw it now, the blast'll kill you-" said Jackson.

"JACKSON, GODDAM IT, JUST THROW THE FUCKING GRENADE ALREADY!!!"

The machine gunner reached for a grenade as Tom hurriedly dragged Cribbs up the stairs. About three-quarters up, Jackson pulled the pin, flipped the switch, and threw it down.

Almost there… Tom saw the grenade fly by, almost in slow motion, just as the lizard jumped. The grenade landed in its mouth and, in surprise, it fell backwards and on top of the group below. Almost…

They made it. Jackson and Nelson grabbed Cribbs by his vest and pulled him up and behind the wall while Tom rolled behind.

BOOOOM!!!! The blast was deafening, the explosion great. To their joy, bits and pieces of the lizard man was seen flying up as well. But their joy did not last; the sound of the army below was still heard, moaning and crawling up the stairs after them.

"GET INTO THE BEDROOM!" ordered Tom.

The three men dragged Cribbs through the open door. Nelson slammed it shut, locked it, and shoved the dresser in front of it.

They took a little breather. But it was short-lived.

"Oh, great job, Sarge!" Jackson yelled hysterically, "Perfect plan! Wish I'd thought of it, jumping down at them!"

"Jackson, shut up!" Tom screamed at him, heading for him. Nelson held him back.

"Easy, man, easy," he said.

"Fuckin' Christ."

Cribbs was examining his body. His uniform was torn and bloody; his vest was shredded in the middle; bite marks were all over his arms, legs, chest, and face.

"Jesus," he said, "I look like a fucking cruncy-munchy."

"Great leadership skills, Sarge," Jackson went on, "really great, I'll recommend you for a commission to Sullivan… if we ever _get out of here_!"

"You know what?" Tom crossed the room, grabbed his subordinate by the vest and slammed him against the wall, "How about I permanently shut your fucking face for you!!"

"HEY!" Nelson yelled, "This isn't helping!"

Tom threw Jackson backwards and stormed around the room, fuming. Outside, the familiar scratching on the door could again be heard, along with the spine-tingling moans.

"So what do we do now, Sarge?" Cribbs asked.

"Oh, come _ON_, Cribbs! After he almost got you turned into a chew toy, you're still gonna follow _him_?" exclaimed Jackson.

"I'd follow him to the gates of Hell and back, Jackson," snapped Cribbs, "and if you were smart, you'd do the same. He's team leader, and he outranks you."

"Like that means shit around here," the machine gunner muttered. Cribbs glared daggers at him. Jackson sighed.

"Sorry, Sarge," he said, sincerely enough.

"It's alright, man," Tom sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. "I fucked us back there. All over a stupid picture that ain't even worth shit anymore."

"Hey man," Cribbs placed a bloody hand on his shoulder, "It was important to you. You did alright. Not the smartest thing in the world, but it was still alright."

The sergeant grinned. Leave it to Cribbs. Even after looking worse than Foley that night he ate too many Sloppy Joes, he still managed to have a positive thing to say about him. "Thanks man," he answered.

"So…." Nelson looked towards the door, the sounds of the enemy still there, then back, "any idea how we're getting out of here?"

"Uh…" Tom's brain was formulating a plan. He glanced down at the bed he was sitting on. A light bulb went on as stood up.

"OK, Jackson, Nelson, help me pick this up. Cribbs, get that window open," he ordered.

Cribbs opened the window as the other three lifted the mattress and rolled it up. Tom directed them from the end as they inched towards the opening. The tip hit the edge, and from there they just slid it out and it landed fully open onto the ground.

"Right, Nelson, you're first. Cribbs, you're next. Jackson, you wanna go, or-?"

"Naw, Sarge, you go. I'll cover you," Jackson stated firmly.

Tom nodded. "Alright, get ready-"

**BAM! **The door was about to give way again.

"Go, Nelson, Go!" screamed Tom.

Nelson jumped feet first, landed on the bed, and rolled off and took a knee, MP-5 ready.

"Cribbs!"

Cribbs pulled himself onto the window, wincing with every movement, as each brought him excruciating pain. His body was halfway out the window when the door was hit with another **BAM!** and he tumbled out. Tom glanced after him, afraid he'd miss the bed.

But he didn't. He landed perfectly onto the mattress. Nelson grabbed him and helped him off.

Tom threw down Cribbs' M-4 and turned to Jackson, who had his SAW fixed on the door.

**BAM!** Yet again, the door almost came.

"SARGE, GO!" the machine gunner ordered. Tom barreled out the window as the door finally gave with a **CRASH!**

He landed on the bed and stood just in time to hear the machine gun fire and screams coming from the room they had just left.

_Shit… Jackson's dead_, was his immediate thought. They were down a man. And with Cribbs in this condition, it wasn't good. _Damn, _he thought, _why didn't I stay? Now I gotta answer to his family and-_

"COWABUNGA!!!!"

Tom looked up just in time to see his friend barrel out the window and land directly on the bed. He sat up and brushed himself off.

"Nice landing," Nelson laughed.

"Alright, we ready?" Tom asked.

"Ye- Aw, _shit_! I forgot the radio," Jackson looked back at the kitchen window.

"Forget it, Jackson. It doesn't even work," said Cribbs.

"I have to go back for it."

"Jackson, WAIT!" Tom tried to stop him, but Jackson grabbed his SAW, charged over, and barreled through the window, smashing the glass.

There was more shooting and screaming in the kitchen, and for the second time in under five minutes, Tom thought that was the last he would see of his friend. But seconds later, the gunner tumbled out the window, the SINCGARS strapped to his back. He rejoined his unit.

"OK, _now_ I'm set," he said.

The Delta Eight sergeant couldn't help but grin.

"OK, move it out!"

The team moved out, Tom in front, Jackson in back, covering Nelson as he helped the wounded Cribbs down the street. The team moved out into their first full day, none knowing where they were going or what they would meet.

But at least they were free.

* * *

…Wow.

I don't even know where the inspiration for that came from.

At first, I just thought I'd do what I did before, but then I got the idea for a battle, and then the thought of the Hunters bursting through (the scene where they came through the door was, I _think, _inspired from a scene in Return of the King.), and then the rest just came and made… _this_.

Well, OK, in my original draft, Cribbs _was _supposed to have multiple bite wounds, not just the single one I gave him last time.

Sorry for the long wait. Hope you like it.

Review please!


	8. Link Up

Chapter Seven up.

Usually, I put this spot for reviewers. This time I just want to say: Please stop complaining about characters. I _will_ get more into them later on, little blurbs and stuff like that, but this story stays mainly in the present situation. I know it's not the best story I've ever done, but it's something that I really want to do, regardless of reviews (though those help). I really don't mind criticism, as long as it's constructive, but if all you're gonna give me is badgering about how you don't "feel" or care for the characters, then don't even review. Only _I_ know what I have in mind for this story, and as readers, all I ask is that you read and see where it goes.

That's all.

* * *

Chapter Eight: Link-Up

There it was. Sitting at the end of the alley, nose buried in the dirt, rotors torn and lying around them, laid the desolate remains of Star Four Five. So used to seeing them standing in the airfield, or flying proudly in the air, Sergeant Waters couldn't help but feel a swift cold wind cut through him at seeing it now looking so… wrecked.

"Owens, Slowenski, on point," he ordered, "I don't wanna get ambushed over there."

The two men held corners of the crash site while Waters and Mabrey moved over to the cock-pit. The sergeant hopped into it while his buddy covered.

Both pilots lay fastened to their seats. They were both dead. Howe was probably killed on impact, judging by the way the bird had landed. Wilkes looked like he had gone down fighting; he was covered in bite marks, and an empty MP-5k submachine gun and .45 pistol lay on his lap.

"Looks like there was a struggle," he called back, "Wilkes is torn to shreds over here."

"So where are the bodies?" Mabrey looked around, "Or did he not get any?"

There were no signs of any assailants anywhere, minus a few pools of blood here or there. If Wilkes had been fighting anyone, it was either an invisible enemy or they had pulled out with their wounded.

Or… he had just had no luck.

Waters thought back to the guys fighting on the LZ. They were fighting an enemy that didn't die the normal way. Was that what Wilkes had encountered? Obviously, he had not known about the "head-shot only" rule. The others were a little luckier. Hell, they were probably so lucky, Waters thought that they were probably already back at the compound, enjoying movies and booze and whatnot.

And just his luck, he was still out here.

Of course, the LZ had long since been overrun, and what remained of the Task Force was separated over a distance of mere miles. But with the radio screw-up, he had no way of knowing that.

"Where the fuck is the team?" Mabrey, who had been checking the back of the chopper, asked. "There's no sign of them either."

Waters looked around. There was no sign at all of Delta Five.

"Maybe they got dragged off," said Mabrey, "You know, maybe those guys decided they were hungry."

"They're crazed, Mabrey, I don't think they're cannibals," said Waters.

"Says you. You didn't see what they did to Cribbs' shoulder."

Waters ignored him and got on his radio.

"Four Two, this is Delta Two, we are on-sight at the crash. Both pilots are dead in the bird. No sign of the team. Request Humvee presence, over."

He waited. The only thing that came through was static. He frowned and glanced at Mabrey, who was looking on, also frowning.

"Four Two, do you copy that, over?"

Again, there was no answer.

"What the hell? Why aren't we getting anything?" Mabrey asked.

Waters motioned for Slowenski and Owens to move towards them. He tried the radio again.

"Four Two, we are at the crash. We have two KIAs in the bird, and there's no sign of the team, do you copy, over?"

Yet again, nothing.

"What's going on?" Owens questioned.

"Looks like we're working with a dead radio," Waters replied. What the hell was going on? Hadn't the radios been tested before the drop? And hadn't they all passed? So why was this acting up?

Were the other radios this bad as well?

"Sarge."

Slowenski had been examining the tail area of the bird. Waters moved towards him.

"Whaddya got?" he asked. Slowenski pointed to the ground.

"'Bout four pairs of footsteps," he answered, "All moving off that way," he pointed east, "Less than half an hour ago."

The team all exchanged hopeful glances. Footsteps meant they had all gone by themselves, on their own free will.

"They might still be alive," Mabrey pointed out hopefully.

"Maybe," Waters turned back to the rest of his team, "Alright, guys, sun-up's in five hours. At that time, we'd better find the team and get out before we lose cover of darkness. We're out of radio contact, so Ski, we're gonna be following you. You gotta follow the trail."

"No prob."

"Hey, Sarge?" Owens looked towards the front of the bird, "I hear vehicles."

The others stopped and listened. Sure enough, what sounded like a small convoy was coming down the road, soft at first, then louder as the vehicles approached.

"Hold here," Waters gave the order, and moved towards the front.

The vehicles were even louder now. Waters flipped the safety on his M-4; didn't want to accidentally shoot a civilian or something. He stepped out to see what car it was-

-And almost got slammed by a Jeep, the front end just barely grazing his side. The three Humvees behind it reeled to a stop.

Waters was pissed.

"GODDAM MOTHERFUCKERS, WHAT THE HELL'S WRONG WITH YOU SHITHEADS?!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

"Nice to see you too, Bill."

The headlights, which had been blaring, turned off, and Sergeant Arnold's grinning face popped up to greet him comrade.

Help had arrived.

The rest of Delta Two came up as Delta Three hopped out of the vehicles. The teams intermingled, slapping high-fives, clapping each others' backs. It was a joyful reunion. After being with only themselves, and, for Delta Three, having seen the remains of their men at the LZ, seeing each other again gave them a better feeling of no longer being alone.

"All insults aside, it's good to see you guys," said Waters, shaking Arnold's hand.

"Likewise," Arnold replied, his grin fleeting, "What's the status?"

"We got both pilots dead in the bird."

"Any sign of the others?"

"Negative. Looks like they pulled out themselves. D'ya think they'd make for the LZ?"

"If they are, they're wasting their time. LZ got overrun."

There was a shocked pause. The Delta Three guys looked grim. The Delta Two guys were stunned.

"O-Overrun?" Waters stammered, not wanting to believe it.

Arnold nodded grimly. "'Fraid so."

His friend fell back against the wall, mentally taking it all in. Those creatures… they had no weapons… how did they win? How could they win?

"How-?"

"By the looks of things, they tore right through the ranks," Arnold looked at his convoy, "It was over when we got there. Place was a damn bloodbath."

"But everything was fine when we left," said Waters, his voice getting a little higher, "It had to have happened, like, _right_ after we took off for here."

"I don't know," The Delta Three sergeant sighed, "We found Martin, he was still breathing. He was in a right state, died not long afterwards."

"Did he say anything? About the others?" Waters looked up again, hopeful.

Arnold hesitated here. He didn't want to be the one to spread false hope. But he didn't want Waters to sound like such a defeatist. He was Delta, for Christ's sakes. And it wasn't exactly an impossible situation, the one they were in. So he told him:

"He said Bradley and Horan managed to pull their teams out. They might still be alive."

Waters let out a gigantic sigh of relief. More survivors. This was good news. Five whole teams of roughly twenty Delta men- pretty good odds, as long as they didn't get cornered or surrounded. The only problem they faced was finding them. For a rural town, it was pretty big, and with no radio contact, it wouldn't be an easy task of finding three split up four-man teams. But they'd worry about that on the road. Right now, their main concern was whether or not they were even alive.

"I'm taking my convoy on a sweeping run through town," Arnold continued, "It's not the most heavily armed convoy out there, but it'll do against these things. I hope I don't have to ask if you want in, do I?" he added this last bit with another smirk.

Waters scoffed, "What, are you stoned on the job? C'mon, let's hurry this up so we can go get the others."

"Lake, Atkins, take care of the pilots. Pettigrew, set the charges on the bird."

It took only ten minutes before everything was good to go. Howe and Wilkes' bodies were placed in Atkins' second Humvee in the column. Pettigrew set a timed charge on the gas tanks of Four Five. Then it was done, and the order to mount up called out. They hopped into the vehicles, two to each, one driving and one taking the .50 on top to give the Humvees protection as they drove. Waters and Arnold hopped into the lead Jeep.

"Three teams out in the middle of nowhere… won't be easy finding them," said Arnold.

"What? Desert Storm boy getting doubtful?" Waters joked.

"Me? Nah, let's do it."

They drove off, one following the other. As the last Humvee pulled out, there was a loud explosion and Four Five went up in a fiery inferno that would smoke throughout all the next day.

"_Crash site secured."_

-----

From the lonely alleyway just outside the Police Station, a helmeted head stuck out, checking for if the coast was clear.

Bradley couldn't have been more grateful that they had brought those PNVs. They really helped see through the darkness and know just who was out there and who wasn't. Not if they were friend or foe, but they would be able to tell that for themselves.

They were headed for the police station. Why? Because it seemed like their best chance. With any luck, they could get an ammo refill or even stumble across a new weapon. Their coffers were doing pretty good right now, but Bradley didn't know just how long they were going to be in this Hell City, so they might as well get comfortable.

"OK, move it up. Foley, Jones, you first," he whispered.

The two men, also wearing their PNVs, dashed out in a sprint. Jones, by team standards, was the fastest member on board, as his role usually involved getting in and out of places in a hurry. He had been a long-time track- runner, and the added military training helped. The heavy bag on his back was no difference as he went to the other end.

Foley was on his tail as they left, but being the clumsy son of a bitch that he was, he tripped over his feet and tumbled onto the road. Bradley groaned. He was as clumsy as he had been the day he'd join the team back in '91. Back then, he'd gotten himself captured by the enemy- _twice_. Well, OK, the second time, they had _all_ gotten captured. But despite his clumsiness, Foley was hands down the best sniper in the group, rivaling only Horan from Delta Eight.

_And was that competition still active?_ Bradley couldn't help but wonder as he watched Foley half run, half tumble over towards Jonesey.

"Connors, you're up."

Connors swung his heavy 60 to the left and side-step ran to his comrades. The tough New Yorker had no fear. Back in the Gulf, he had single-handedly taken on tanks and infantry while waiting for back-up. The man had destroyed more armor with single-shot rocket launchers as if they were flies he were swatting, never breaking a sweat; an invaluable asset to the team. He made it to the others safely and prepared to open the front gate.

Alright. His turn. Bradley took a deep breath and sprinted across the street. They had been doing this since they had left the van they had hid behind, and it was starting to wear him out, which was glad their objective was right there. He made it to the other side, turned, dropped to a knee, and took a holding position.

He hand-signaled for two men to go in, full force. Connors kicked down the door and moved in, Jones right behind him. Foley quickly followed Connors, and Bradley, Jones.

They cleared the courtyard in standard room clearing formation- first man goes left, second goes right, third left, and fourth right, alongside the walls, moving until they met. Since the courtyard was small, it was easy to clear. They did it as fast as they could.

The only person there was dead; a man, in a yellow police vest, blood pouring out his mouth and the back of his head. Jones bent down to examine him.

"S.T.A.R.S, by the looks of him," he said, "Something passed clean through his head."

"S.T.A.R.S? What's that?" asked Foley.

"Special police unit in Raccoon," Connors explained, "Basically, the Delta Force of the city."

"I don't remember seeing them at the LZ," Foley muttered.

"That's 'cause back in July, a bunch of 'em got butchered up in the Arklay Mountains," said Jones.

"Really? Why?"

"Classified information, Foley," Bradley cut in as Jones was about to answer, "No one knows the real reason, all people know are a bunch of rumors."

He haphazardly kicked the body a little, not hard; just to make sure it was really dead. Deciding that he was, he turned back to the others, "Alright, move in. Careful what you shoot at."

The team stacked up by the door. Foley was at the rear, Connors was up front. Bradley gave the order, and the machine gunner kicked down the door. He and the sergeant quickly barreled in and pivoted either left or right.

A hand fell on Foley's shoulder.

"Dude, not now," he said, "tell me when we get inside."

"Man, who you talking too?" Jones asked from up front.

"You, you're tapping on my-"

Both paused. Slowly, they both turned around, to see the man they thought dead, only now he was on his feet, arms stretched out towards them…

Looking _awfully_ hungry.

"Aw, shit," said Foley.

When the guy moaned, they both took that as a sign to bolt through the door hollering for all it was worth and then kicking the thing shut and locking it. Bradley and Connors, finishing their sweep, examined them wearily.

"Um… what?" asked Connors.

"I HATE this town!" Foley screamed, "The people so goddam WEIRD! One minute, they're face down, flat-fuck dead on the ground, next, they're standing up, trying to eat me. _What the HELL is going on in this place??!"_

"I don't know," Bradley said, sighing and putting his face in his hand, "That's what we don't know; what changed these people, how they're not dying when we shoot them, why they're eating and killing our men- that's what we don't know, and that's what we need to find out.

"We're gonna search every possible nook and cranny of this building, look for clues, evidence, anything. No splitting up, we stick together at all costs. I want names, dates, objects, events, the whole nine yards. Let's go."

So they moved off, taking down any barricades that blocked their way, searching for anything and everything that could help them.

Their path lead down one we all know of; a path made famous as the start of the Outbreak.

-----

In another part of the city, a large crowd was massing. But it wasn't the assailants; it was the U.B.C.S mercenaries and their Special Operative counterparts, the men in the gas-masks. Their numbers were now in the hundreds, sticking in platoon and squad formations. Accompanying them was a large convoy of trucks and armored cars, straight out of Headquarters.

Spinelli, a tall broad shoulder mercenary, approached the command truck, where Captain Hannigan was checking his notes.

The captain was tall, with curly blonde hair and a scar running down his face. He was an old-school U.B.C.S mercenary of at least thirty-two years, and was one of Isaacs' personal favorites, as the best leader of Umbrella their army had seen. He looked up as his subordinate approached.

Scouts report fields of men trying to leave the city," he said, "Sergeant Christie-Bennett was said to be with them."

"What about Lieutenant Victor's platoon?" Hannigan asked in a low, gruff voice.

"No one's seen them. Some said he was wounded in the original assault, but no one knows where he went after that."

"What about Olivera?"

"Same story. No trace."

"Captain." This came from Sergeant Hoss, one of the Special Ops. team leaders and the ranking member of the unit amongst them as of yet.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

"Get the men ready," Hannigan answered, "Those Delta boys are still in the city. I've been order to wipe them out… all of them."

* * *

Trouble in paradise-o.

Lieutenant Victor is Mikhail from _Nemesis_. Not many people use his last name, so I am.

The zombie is Brad Vickers. I'm showing exactly when he became a zombie.

Hope you'll still stay for the ride, because I promise it'll be worth it if you want some battles!

Review please!


	9. Sewer Passages

Chapter Nine, coming up!

This chapter continues with Delta One, following them from the police office to the sewers and into the underground labs, much like in Re2.

XTonberryX: No, Leon will not be encountered in this story, though there will be some close path-crossing. Keep reading for more.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Nine: Sewer Passages

Sergeant Bradley flipped through the file on the office desk, and then closed it, frustrated. Once again, he turned up with nothing.

"Why in the hell would I think the police would know anything about this?"

"Because they're cops, they know the shit that goes around here better than we do?" suggested Foley.

"Because of the recent investigations of the murders in the area?" thought Jones.

"Because you thought they'd be as stupid as those Iraqi soldiers that left their plans and shit lyin' around?" piped up Connors.

"Alright, already, I get it," Bradley snapped, shutting them up.

After almost an hour looking for some sort of information, they were at a standstill. Bradley sighed and turned to Jones.

"What'd you find?" he asked.

"Oh," Jones flipped through his pile again, "you know; crime scenes, suspect lists, evidence files… basically, none of it tells us shit about what the hell's going on."

"I got something about missing jewels and confiscated C-4," said Foley, "Christies, I think all these guys actually did 'round here was play cards, drink, and fraternize with the locals."

"These guys were fuckin' useless. Why the hell are we wastin' our time readin' this shit?" Connors demanded.

Bradley sighed again and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm gonna take some shut eye," he said, "Rest of you, keep an eye out. Don't lemme sleep too long, bout fifteen minutes, then we go."

The others nodded and continued searching. The sergeant propped his feet on the table, folded his arms across the M-16 on his chest and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to take him to dream land…

"_HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"_

_The now six-year-old boy smiled happily and blew out the candles on his cake. The adults cheered and whooped. One of the women snapped a photo. John smiled at his son. The perfect family outing._

_Later, he was telling the kids the usual war stories. He had probably told these stories a hundred times already, but for some reason, the kids never tired of them._

"_So, then," he said, "Jonesey crept up behind one of the men and put them in a quick headlock, then CRACK!" he scared the little girls a little with the sudden outburst, "Put him out of commission."_

"_JOHN!" Ellen's voice came from the house, "Phone call!"_

"_Alright, kiddies, I'll be back," John winked towards the little ones and hustled to the house._

_Ellen handed them the phone, a grim look on her face that instantly told John that there was some bad news that usually involved a duffel bag and orders to the airport._

"_It's your C.O.," she replied softly._

_Her husband resignedly grabbed the phone and put it to his ear._

"_Bradley…uh huh… whereabouts? Middle East? Russia?... Raccoon City? Where the hell is Raccoon City?... Why the hell are you calling_ _us_ _in? Shouldn't National Guard be on it? Uh huh… The whole unit? Shit… Three days? Yeah, fine, I'll be there… Bye."_

_He went to hang it, paused for a second, stared at the phone, and then finally hung it up. He turned around to the screen door, where Ellen was standing with her back to him, staring out into the backyard._

"_We've been called out," he told her, "Some town out west. They're sending in the whole unit."_

_She sighed, "When?"_

"_Three days," he walked over to where she was and wrapped her arms around her waist, "I'm sorry, honey-"_

"_Let's not get into a fight over it," she stated firmly, "The important thing is that you were here for Danny's birthday. That means a lot to both of us."_

"_I wouldn't miss it for the world," he assured her, kissing the top of her head, "C'mon, let's get some of that cake."_

_He started to head out for the garden, but Ellen gently grasped his arm._

"_John," she said nervously, "This mission… is it a bad one?"_

"_Oh, God, no," he reassured her, "C'mon- in mid-west America? How bad could it be?"_

"Sarge? Wake up."

Bradley jerked awake. The first thought through his mind was what time it was. The second was how glad he was the safety on his rifle was on; otherwise, Foley would've been gone by now.

"Has it been fifteen already?" he asked groggily.

"Actually, been more like twenty. We wanted to give yeh a break," Foley replied.

Bradley groaned. How could it have been twenty minutes already? Seemed like he had just closed his eyes three seconds ago. He sat up, weapon ready.

"Whatcha got?" he asked.

"Connors found somethin' he thinks you'd like."

-----

"Where's this leading too?" Bradley asked, looking through the darkness.

It had been Connors who had discovered it; a backdoor, leading into a garage and beyond that, the unknown. The machine gunner seemed proud of his findings, though why remained to be seen.

"Most likely, prison area," he told them, "Heads through the garage and down the hall."

"So?"

"_So_? RPD layout says there's an ammo dump located right outside the prison cells. And I dunno 'bout you," he held up his 60, "But I need a refill."

"Now that you mention it, I'm kinda low, too," Bradley checked his M-16 ammo. He had half a clip in the rifle and another full one in its pouch- about forty-five rounds in all. Continuing the fight on only forty-five rounds was just out of the question.

"Alright, we'll run by there, grab some bullets, and maybe some grenades if they have any, I've only got one left. After that, we get back to searching."

"Maybe we'll find some clues down there," Jones suggested.

"Looks like someone's finally decided to throw us a bone," drawled Foley, "Some good luck at last."

BOOM!

At that moment, there was a loud crash from the floor above them. It sounded like something had smashed right through the roof and landed on the second floor. Whatever it was hit with enough force to send dust and some gravel down on the D-boys, which, at the sound, had made all four heads look up. No other noise followed.

"…What was that?" Foley broke the silence with.

"Y'know what?" Connors began heading through the door, "For once, I'd rather not know."

-----

The door popped open. Bradley quickly pivoted in, flashlight in one hand and his silenced pistol in the other. He looked around. No sign of any enemies.

"All clear," he said.

The rest of the boys filed in. Connors looked on the wall for the light switch, found it, and flipped it up. Instantly, the room lit up, revealing a nice-sized weapons and ammo cache with all the ammunition their weapons could ever need.

"Bottom floor: _Jackpot_," the machine gunner said with a giant smile that spread across his entire face.

The foursome began looking through the supplies that lay scattered around them for ammo their weapons could use.

"Here's an ammo pouch, Sarge," Jones tossed Bradley a five-clip ammo pouch, the latter gratefully catching it and taking out the clips, checking if they were full, then stuffed them in his own pouches.

"Jonesey," Foley tossed an MP-5 mag to his friend, who caught it and exchanged that with the empty clip in his sub-machine gun.

Connors found some machine gun boxes and grabbed four to add to the two he currently had.

"Y'know, I'm amazed they actually have ammo here that suits our needs," he said aloud, "I didn't think a police station would really need 60 ammo."

"I'm more amazed that those cops back at the LZ didn't use it all," pondered Jones, "I mean, if they knew it was a bad situation, why didn't they bring all this?"

"Probably used it for back-up purposes. In case they had to fall back because they ran out," Bradley exchanged, "Sure would be one hell of an advantage having this whole cache, had they made it back. How you off, Foley?"

"I'm doing alright," the sniper had just been leaning against the wall the whole time, except for when he handed Jones the clip, "Still got a decent amounts of clips left for the Light Fifty, and I ain't about to run out anytime soon."

"You sure?"

"Damn straight, Boss."

Jones stuffed three more clips into his vest. He had about eight clips now, but he hoped he wouldn't have to use them soon; MP-5's were bullet eaters, as were most semi-automatic weapons. He also grabbed a few more shotgun shells and a couple extra grenades.

"So we gonna sweep the cells or what?" he asked.

"Yeah," Bradley answered, "Make sure you lock the door on your way out. No point in leaving this open for those things outside to get at."

After closing up the dump, they proceeded through the corridors. They were in combat ready mode, hunched over, inching forward with their weapons leading the way, occasionally swinging around to make sure they didn't miss anything.

Pushing the door open, Bradley gulped as his flashlight fell upon two dogs, sleeping in their cages. Apparently, they had just entered the kennel area. Both dogs appeared to be Dobermen, but, as he could plainly see, they had crossed over to the other side. Their skin was shredded and destroyed, their appearance dead. One's ear was just a stump of bone; the other was missing an eye.

He turned to his teammates, pointed his index and middle fingers to his eyes, and then pointed to the dogs, signaling for them to keep their eyes open and ready on them. They nodded and looked at the dogs, weapons trained.

The sergeant looked around a little bit and soon found a manhole covering. He motioned for Connors to come up. Both squatted down and tried to open the manhole. It was budged down. Bradley inspected it to find it bolted down.

"Jones," he whispered, motioning him up. Jones crouched up and took out the mechanic's wrench he carried around with him for vehicle repairs. He began unscrewing the bolts on the cover.

Foley, covering the dogs with his Beretta pistol, moved up to the others just as Jones got the last screw undone. With that finished, the combined strength of all four operators forced the manhole cover open.

They stared down into the darkness, wondering what was at the bottom. Bradley and Connors exchanged glances, with the latter waving his hand.

"After you, Senor."

-----

THUMP! Bradley's feet met the floor. In an instant, he squatted and pointed his M-16 down the corridor. The light shined on into nothingness, indicating they had a clear road. He signaled for the others to follow and moved ahead slowly.

Jones's feet came next, and just as instantly whipped his MP-5 up and moved forward. He was followed by Connors, who followed in the same matter.

"OOF!" Foley had just fallen hard on his ass coming down the chute, "Damn it!"

"Quit fuckin' around, Foley. Move it!" Connors hissed in front of him.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'," the sniper snapped ahead, rubbing his aching behind. Bradley let out a huff as he flipped his PNVs back on.

All around the sewer floors, heaps of dead and bloating bodies lay or leaned against the wall, their chests clawed and exploded. Connors flipped one of them over with his foot. His eyes fell upon the patch on his shoulder: a red and white umbrella.

"Don't these look like the sons of bitches that were helpin' us out on the LZ?" he asked aloud.

"Naw, their uniform's different," Bradley kicked another one over, "These guys look like a kind of Special Ops. group. Gas masks, Custom TMPs, you name it."

"What were they doin' down here?" asked Foley.

"Guess we're gonna find out," the sergeant waved them forward, "Keep moving, stay together."

They walked for what seemed like forever; the sewer systems appeared to have no known end to them. They stayed together, their weapons ready, their fingers just itching on the triggers. Their breathing was loud and heavy; their nerves had finally caught up to them. There, in that dank, desolate dungeon, danger loomed out of every single corner. They stayed together, though with enough room so that they wouldn't all be killed if a stray grenade happened to land between their ranks.

The walked and walked until the sewers became metal walls, then a large garage-like arena, then down quite alongways on a large elevator platform that eventually lead them to what would be known whenever future generations heard the story of the Raccoon City Incident as the "Gates of Hell"...

The one place where it all began…

The underground laboratory of William Birkin

-----

Bradley looked around at the clean white walls. The place, despite being trashed by the enemy, still looked pretty heavenly in appearance. Large lab equipment was the one main appearance of every room they visited.

"Where are we?" Jones asked.

"Looks like a lab," answered Bradley.

"Think it might be that one the Umbrella captain was talkin' about?" Connors piped up, "The one that had the incident or whatever it was?"

"Maybe," the sergeant lowered his rifle. They were now in a large room with plenty of test tubes, desks, and other office equipment around. He turned to his men.

"Alright, this'll be our HQ for now," he said, "We'll conduct our investigation from here. Spread out and search for any documents or lab specimens you can find that'll help us out. Everything I said to look for earlier, I still want it. Go."

The team spread out and began searching again. Foley and Jones opened one door and gulped at what they found.

About four large, almost ten-foot biological nuclear weapons, on stand-by, with the Umbrella Corporation logo on each of them.

"Ho, _damn_," Jones whistled, "Those are some big nukes."

"Hey, if those things were to, y'know, go off or somethin'," stammered Foley, nervously, "You could disarm them in time, right?"

"I should be able to, yeah."

Pause.

"Well… what would happen if you couldn't? I mean, would it be mildly bad, or would it be catastrophic?"

"Boy, lemme put it to yeh this way: You see me start to haul my black ass outta here, you'd _best_ be right behind me."

Foley gulped. Jones didn't get into "ghetto speak" unless he was trying to get a serious point across. He stared nervously at the 10:00 timer on the first nuke.

Bradley shuffled through the file cabinet, looking for any clues. His eyes fell upon one file:

"_T-VIRUS FULL REPORT: includes the events of 23rd-24th July, 1998."_

Intrigued, he picked the file up, closed the cabinet, and sat down at the table. Sipping from his canteen, he began to read:

_From the analysis we have gotten from the accounts of the 23rd-24th July incidents, we have been able to confirm what happened to those who were working on the T-Virus, and how the T-Virus worked on them:_

_Base on accounts from Dr. Birkin, the contamination of the Arklay Mansion, the Training Facilities, and the Ecliptic Express was caused by a still un-identified perpetrator, who has been reportedly exterminated. The virus overtook all doctors, soldiers, and other employees in a matter of minutes, killing them, rejuvenating their brain cells and returning them to live as undead, mindless beings that we have since given the unofficial code-name "zombies."_

_The T-Virus infection can run its full course in a matter of minutes, hours, or even a couple of days, depending on the stableness of the person. No known record has been proven to the exact number an hours an infected person can live for, but it's highly unlikely they can survive more than a day or two._

_Once a person becomes a zombie, his central nerve system shuts down and he feels no pain. As such, severing the spinal column or removing the head in some way are the two only methods that seem to work against destroying them completely. The creature also seems to lose all thoughts and memories, acting only on a basic instinct: the need to feed. Once bitten by a zombie, the infection immediately starts spreading, so that the infected in turn become zombies._

Bradley stopped reading for a few moments, to let out his breath that he hadn't even realized he had been holding.

This was it; they had truly hit the jackpot. All that had answered more than it could to a normal civi reading it for the first time. He now knew what they were up against, though it didn't even seem real. How could their main opponent be _zombies_? Zombies were only the main product of Romero movies, not real life. It didn't make any sense. But then he thought back to the LZ, of the guys they had lost and the ones that had killed them, and his disbelief went as fast as it had come. But there was still more. He kept reading.

_According to Dr. Birkin, the above perpetrator spread the T-Virus in the facilities, resulting in the now-famous Mansion Incident and the Facilities Incident. It turned all the people working there into the undead, and all of the B.O.W's that were being worked on there turned even more violent than previously recorded._

_Unfortunately, any methods of recording them have been lost, due to the actions of renegade Umbrella operative Albert Wesker and the S.T.A.R.S teams. Therefore, the opportune data-recording measures could not be taken. Thankfully, their data has been sent to us from Birkin, so we can analyze where we went wrong there, and improve for the future._

_Such information on the T-Virus would be extremely beneficial to Dr. Birkin's G-Virus experiments, which are in its post-production stages-_

That was it. There was nothing more to read. But that was enough for a start. They needed to find out about this G-Virus. If the T-Virus was the reason for everyone being like they were now, then Bradley could only surmise that "G" could only be a lot worse.

"Delta One, on me," he called out.

"Alright guys, listen up," He said as they gathered around the table, "I just found out more than we could've anticipated. The labs here were conducting an experimental virus known as 'T'. From what I have gathered, 'T' rejuvenates dead cells, which sub-sequentially brings the dead back to life. That's what's happened to these people now."

"Wait a minute… are you sayin' they're _zombies_?" Connors was aghast.

"Looks like it. I know, I know, it's not possible, but this time, it is. What's more, 'T' seems to behind the incidents in the Arklay Mountains a couple months back as well."

"The one with the S.T.A.R.S?" asked Jones, remembering zombie-boy back in front of the station.

"Yeah, apparently. And more than that, testing on a virus called 'G' is in post-production, going on at this lab. They may have it finished. They may even try to use it."

"Well, we ain't gonna let that happen," Foley declared.

"Hold on, Cowboy. First, we need to gather and read through any records, data streams, and observation notes we can find about 'T' or 'G'. Anything that can help our current situation in any given way, and also prevent another incident from occurring."

Bradley sat down at the table.

"Get comfy," he said, "Something tells me we're gonna be here a while."

-----

"Sir?"

Captain Sullivan turned, "Yes?"

"You'd better come take a look at this."

The captain crossed over from the planning table, which he had been glued to for three hours now, to the monitors.

"What do we got?" he asked.

"Large bodies massing in the south part of town," the operator, a little kid with glasses called Sonar, answered, "Number of men reaching three hundred by now, all armed with assault rifles and small-arms."

Sullivan frowned, "Who are they?"

"I don't know, sir. What other unit could it be?"

Sullivan's first thought was the National Guard or some army unit. But that couldn't be; he would've gotten the call first. But then who-?

Umbrella.

The Umbrella Corporation's Biohazard Unit. The ones helping- and sub-sequentially butchered- at the LZ. Why the hell were they sending in more troops? The LZ had been overrun hours ago. They couldn't be of any more help to his boys.

Unless they weren't there to help his boys…

"Who's the ranking U.B.C.F officer?" he demanded suddenly.

"Uh… Captain Mackenzie, sir."

"Get him over here. We're about to have a lot of problems…"

* * *

Jamie Gartland: You mentioned in your PM about Mac meeting Sullivan. Seemed like a good idea, so I' going ahead with it. Send me any ideas you may have on the subject, as I can only surmise how it would go.

The roof-crashing thing was Mr. X from Re2 and the bodies in the sewer were HUNK's Special Ops. team from the same game.

Hope you enjoyed the boring yet interesting chapter. We won't be seeing Delta One for a little while, so say good-bye for now.

Review please.


	10. Explosive Getaway

Chapter Ten, up.

Back to the convoy.

Thanks to all my kick-ass reviewers. You pushed this story up from the criticisms it got at the beginning and make it good. Special thanks to Jamie Gartland, Raven Thornheart, Sigokat, XTonberryX, and HawkyeStorm.

Enjoy:

* * *

Chapter Ten: Explosive Getaway

Sergeant Arnold sat in the chair and sighed.

They had stopped the convoy at a near-by gas station for refueling. Having been driving around the city for hours, add the fact that the rides had only been half-full on gas when they had found them, they had no choice but to pull over and rest a bit.

Sergeant Waters had taken Delta Two on a quick search around the neighborhood to look for the others. His team, Delta Three, was getting the vehicles ready to move out. So it was with that that he was finally able to sit back and catch a few minutes respite.

Arnold had no idea where to go next. Hopefully, they would find the others soon. Having the pilots' bodies rotting in the back wasn't exactly a luxury for any of them. And he was getting tired. They had been on the ground for about seven hours. Daylight was starting to come up. If they stayed out any longer, they would be sitting ducks for any enemy force out there.

He sat back in his chair and placed his M-4 on the counter. Closing his eyes, he tried for a last-ditch attempt to get some rest…

_Whack!_

"_FOUR!!!" Zack shouted ahead_ _to any unsuspecting golfers. Sam flinched as the ball bounced off a golf cart and down into a sand trap._

"_Ooh, tough break," he said to his subordinate, "Today just isn't your golfing day, is it?"_

"_Yeah, like it's yours," muttered Zack._

_Whack! Sam smacked the ball. It soared, forty feet into the air, and came down relatively close to the green._

"_Yeah," he replied, "I'd say it is."_

_Zack scowled, "You're lucky you're my team leader, or I might just bash your head in with my 9 iron."_

_The two soldiers grabbed their golf bags and proceeded over to where Sam's ball lay in wait in the grass. Sam grabbed the driver and sighed._

"_I tell ya, Zack," he said to his friend, "Fresh air, out on the golf field, no officers or anything like that breathing down our necks… I could do this every weekend."_

"_No kidding," Zack laughed, "And the way you're playing today, I wouldn't be surprised if you wouldn't want to spend every day being today."  
_

"_Yeah, man," Sam lined himself up, "Today's perfect. And nothing can possibly take that away from us."_

_BRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGG!!!!!_

_The cell phone rang just as he went to swing. The sudden interruption caused him to mis-hit, sending the ball flying into the treeline._

"_SHIT SONUVA BITCH!!" he cursed loudly. "SHUT UP!" he snapped at Zack, who had doubled over in hysterical laughter._

_He jammed his hand into the bag's pocket, grabbed the cell phone, and brought it to his ear. "WHAT??!!!" he shouted._

_His voice calmed down as the conversation went on._

"_What does Sullivan want? It's my day off… Mission? ANOTHER one? Jesus... alright, where is it this time? Uh huh... Where the fuck is Raccoon City? More so, WHAT the fuck is Raccoon City? Sounds like an animal village... Why the hell are we going out to the middle of America for a mission? This isn't our kind of detail… Three days? Why should we?... Shit… fine, fine. I'll report to base in three days… yeah… Arnold out."_

_He flipped his cell phone off and turned to Zack, whose expression was just as serious._

"_We're getting called out again," he told him, "Some town out west. Whole unit's getting called out."_

_Zack sighed heavily. Sam looked in the direction of his ball._

"_Ah, forget it," he said, picking up his bag, "Game got called on account of shitty situations."_

The door opened. Arnold jerked awake, ready with his M1911. But it was only Sergeant Waters, body in the doorway, shouting back to the other guys.

"Keep your eyes open, guys," he called back to his men. He stepped into the building and sighed.

"I dunno, Sam. We did a couple laps around the block, couldn't find the others anywhere," he said, sitting down opposite the other sergeant.

Arnold groaned. He needed a smoke badly. He didn't like it, but he needed it. He grabbed a cigarette and stuffed it into his mouth, then felt around for a lighter. He couldn't find it.

"Shit," he cursed, "You got a light?"

"Yeah," Waters struck a match and lit it close to the cigarette. Arnold held it so that it lit, then put it in his mouth and inhaled. Heaven.

"That hit the spot," he said gratefully.

"So what do you want to do here, Sam?" asked Waters concernedly.

"What's the situation on the Humvees?"

"Almost ready to go, just a little bit more."

"We'll wait a little longer, then we'll move out towards the park. Just scout around there, it's big enough that they may have hid out there."

-----

Sullivan impatiently watched the video screens for any sign of his men. They had a bead on Delta Two and Delta Three up at the gas station, but still nothing on where the other members were. It was turning out to be a game of cat and mouse. Every time they thought they had a fix on their location, they would turn out to be completely off. This was a mess.

"Sir?" Sonar interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Got U.B.C.F captain on the horn, sir," the operator held up the phone.

Finally, something right. Sullivan was about to connect with the U.B.C.F overall commander about the growing number of soldiers entering the city. His suspicions about Umbrella's motives were still fresh in his mind, but he didn't want to sound like he was accusing them of anything wrong. He just wanted to make sure that there wasn't any illegal activity against his men about to occur. When he got on the phone, he tried to sound businesslike and polite.

"_Hello?"_ a gruff voice on the other end said first.

"Hello, this is Captain Sullivan, who's speaking?" Sullivan replied.

"_This is Captain Ian Mackenzie, I'm an officer in the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Force."_

"Yes, I understand that there are a lot of your people out there. Are they giving my guys support as best they can?" Not accusatory, just concerned.

The next thing he knew, he was holding the phone a little away from his head, as the voice on the other end had raised his voice.

"_Look, sir, I have close to two hundred and fifty men out there. That's Two-Five-Zero. I've lost communication with my commander on the ground, and I believe that my officers may be in danger. If you don't pull your FUCKING finger out of your fucking ass, and hold your fire on our vehicles, then I'm gonna come down there and fucking pull the plug on your operation. My men have the experience. Start doing something to back them the fuck up."_

There was a loud click and then the dial tone. Sullivan stared speechlessly at the phone, and then placed it down.

"Well," he said, "_That_ went well."

He was about to just go back to business when something Mackenzie had said rang back to his mind. He turned back to Sonar.

"Have any of our men made reported contact with Umbrella forces since the LZ?" he asked.

"No, sir. None that we know of."

"Get us a visual of their convoy."

"Roger," Sonar spoke into the mic, "Star Four Seven, this is Command, request at this time to fly over the Umbrella convoy and give us a visual, over."

"_Roger that. Four Seven inbound now."_

The staff watched Four Seven's monitor as it flew over the U.B.C.F besieged convoy. Sure enough, they were taking small-arms fire and what appeared to be a LAW rocker being fired. The assailants stayed in the shadows, but their tactics were unmistakably Delta.

"If that's one of ours, I'm gonna be pissed," growled Sullivan.

"Looks like it, sir," Lt. Riley squinted to the screen, "At least one CAR-15 and SAW, and maybe an M-21."

It was the M-21 that made Sullivan realize who it was. The first two weapons could've made it anyone in the unit, as the CAR-15 was a popular Special Op. weapon, and the SAW was more preferable than the M-60. But there were only two M-21's in the whole unit. And one of them was currently at the gas station with the convoy. That meant…

"Sanderson?"

"It's possible, sir," Sonar piped up, "But what I don't get is why they're opening up on an Umbrella convoy."

"I think we should be asking who shot first, them or us?" Sullivan stated grimly.

Had Umbrella attacked their boys? If so, why? What purpose did they have at shooting each other when they were supposed to be shooting the murderers?

He thought back to the chopper Briggs had reportedly shot down. And now, there was the current situation.

Someone wasn't playing by the rules.

-----

While the two sergeants conferred with each other, Lake, Atkins, and Slowenski were checking over their ammo status. So far, that was the only bright spot; there was still plenty to go around.

"You know, I think this is a pretty good situation," said Lake, enjoying a smoke, "I mean, we're stuck in a city overrun by cannibals, our friends are either dead or missing, we're running around town looking for twelve different people, and we're running out of food, but aside from all that, I'd say we're living the good life right now, wouldn't you agree?"

Atkins just stared at his teammate as if he had never seen anything like him, ever.

"You're kidding me, right?" he asked.

"Naw, I mean it," the other operator replied, "Any other soldier would be pissing themselves with fear in this kinda situation, but not us. This kinda shit, yeah, it's fucked up, but it's not _that_ bad just yet, y'know? We've still got plenty of ammo, we've got rides that have at least four wheels and a .50 each, and we're up against enemies that a.) Can't shoot back, and b.) Are slow, and c.)Go down with a bullet to the head," he shrugged, "I just don't see a reason to worry."

"God, you're fucking high," Atkins shook his head, "What do you think, Ski?"

"I dunno," came the reply from a group of tires.

Lake sat up and glanced over. Slowenski was leaning against the group of tires, looking perfectly at peace, reading his Bible as if it were a New York Times bestseller.

"Is that a fucking _Bible_?" he asked, almost laughing.

"HEY!" Atkins smacked him upside the head, "Show some respect, will ya? It's the Holy Bible, stupid."

"It's alright, Atkins," replied Slowenski casually, "I get that all the time."

"Why the hell do you read it all the time, man?" Lake asked, "I mean, seriously, it's not like the thing was written yesterday. There are a lot more interesting books in the world."

"I grew up off this book," the Delta Two gunner explained, "My parents were old-time Catholic church-goers, and they always wanted me and my kid sister to be the same. I was home-schooled as long as I can remember, got taught all sorts of stuff about religion and theological values. And every night, before I went to bed, my dad would have me write down a passage from the Bible, from beginning to end. I must have written down the entire Bible by the time I finished home school."

"So why you in the army then?" asked a curious Atkins.

Slowenski shrugged. "I wanted to see the world, and missionary work wasn't appealing to me. I figured the army was a good chance to do some real good in the world. I signed up for Delta because I wanted to fight with the best."

The Delta Three machine gunner smiled. A real Christian. It was so rare to come across one of those these days. That's what made Ski likeable around here.

"Well, I signed up 'cause I needed a good job and the pay was good," Lake said in reply, laying down with his hands behind his back, "Any idiot can fight in the army, but it takes warrior skill to take on Delta. That's why I'm telling you to stop worrying, Atkins, we're doing fi-"

He suddenly stopped himself. Sitting up, he then sat still, as if something had just struck him odd. Atkins and Slowenski exchanged confused glances.

"You guys hear that?" asked Lake.

The other two listened. Sure enough, it sounded like a loud stomping from down the street, coming right towards them. Whatever it was, it was big. Then, through the night air, they could've sworn they heard a low growl-

"_Staaaaars."_

The three looked up. Coming down the street, carrying the Gatling Gun and Rocket Launcher with relative ease and looking increasingly deadly, was the green monster Delta Two had encountered earlier.

"What-the-fuck is _that?_" whispered Atkins slowly.

"Oh my God… that's that thing we ran into. It almost flattened Sarge when it came down from the sky," Slowenski realized.

"Motherfucker looks like it takes a shitload of bullets," Lake came in with.

The monster roared a loud one that sent shivers down their spines. It woke up Pettigrew, whom had been sleeping in the cab of the first Humvee. He looked out the window and his eyes went wide as he saw the creature.

"Sweet Jesus…" he gasped, and, quite panicked, he turned the car on. The headlights flashed right at the creature, right into its eyes, and it roared again and raised its rocket launcher.

"Aw, shit."

-----

Arnold and Waters picked their heads up when they heard the sound of the Humvees turning on.

"What the hell?" Arnold threw his cigarette onto the floor, grabbed his M-4, and stormed out, Waters following.

When they got outside, they froze. All three Humvees were started, and the front one-Pettigrew's- headlights were fixed on a large green monster with enough weaponry to mow down an entire battalion of men.

"What the _fuck_ is that?" Arnold demanded.

On first glance, Waters instantly recognized it. Of course, it wasn't hard to forget; you really can't an appearance like the one this thing had.

"Sonuva… how'd he find us?" he asked.

"You know each other?" asked Arnold, his M-4 trained on the monster.

"Not by first name basis," the other sergeant explained, "but you could say he 'dropped in' on us earlier."

The monster roared. Suddenly, Atkins, Lake, and Slowenski burst out of their hiding spot, firing their weapons. Atkins and Slowenski pelted it with the heavy machine gun bullets, covering Lake as he charged for his Humvee. Their guns fired in three-round bursts, jerking with each squeeze of the trigger, but the two machine gunners held firm until Lake barreled into the last Humvee, which Mabrey had started up.

"Shit! Punch it!" Lake shouted.

"Ski, GO!" Atkins yelled. Slowenski, big man that he was, lowered his machine gun and trudged over to Humvee #3. Atkins followed not far behind, emptying the last quarter of the box into the creature.

It took all the bullets they fired at it; blood spurting out from beneath its jacket and to the ground, but it took no visible damage, nor showed any sign of pain. Instead, it growled, and raised its Gatling Gun square at the teams.

"Oh, _shit_," Arnold said softly, then louder, "EVERYBODY DOWN!"

The Gatling Gun opened up, bullets firing; probably three thousand rounds a second. They smashed the windows to pieces, they reduced the walls to nothingness. In about thirty seconds, the gun had turned the Gas Station into a pile of rubble.

Arnold and Waters, both on the ground as close as they could to the vehicles, were both amazed at the amount of firepower this maniac had. The Gatling Gun must've weighed about 100 pounds, but it didn't even flinch when it had fired. Nor did the Rocket Launcher make things difficult for it. Whatever this thing was, it had phenomenal strength and an incredible sense of recovery. This was a foe they neither had the skill nor the equipment to defeat.

"Get to the Jeep! Start it up!" Arnold shouted, "I'll draw fire from this son of a bitch!"

Waters got up and sprinted towards the Jeep. The other sergeant got up and, taking careful aim, fired a round into where its heart should've been. The round entered, spurting more blood out, but it just stared coldly at him as he fired round after round, into its gut, chest, kneecaps, arms-

It raised its Rocket Launcher single handedly. Arnold, aiming down his sights, gulped upon seeing the weapon aimed right at him.

"Aw, _shi_-!"

It was a slow-mo thing. As the rocket fired, Arnold kicked his legs out from under him and fell onto his back. He watched the rocket fly over him and slam into what remained of the Gas Station and slam into it with a deafening BOOM! It sent bricks and debris flying through the air, landing everywhere from fifty feet away to directly on top of the Delta Three sergeant. He coughed and sputtered out the dirt that had been kicked up and landed in his mouth.

"SAM! MOVE!"

Waters fired several .50 caliber bullets, which, again, tore into him with little damage. That did it for Arnold. Anything that could take a heavy .50 bullet and not get torn apart by it just wasn't worth the hassle of shooting at. He got up and barreled into the driver's seat of the Jeep and slammed his feet on the breaks.

It and the Humvees tore out of there just as another rocket destroyed the gas tanks. Those went up in a fiery inferno, sending a shockwave tearing through the ground. From behind them, they could hear the monster cry, "_STAAAAARS_!" once last time.

It could've been worse; at least all of their men were safe and their vehicles undamaged. But Arnold had a feeling next time wouldn't be so lucky. Just mere minutes ago, he was having trouble staying awake. Now he was wired with fear and adrenaline. That thing had scared him, regardless of everything he thought he knew. It scared him in a way that he didn't think he'd ever sleep again.

Through the rear-view window, he looked back at the now inflamed Gas Station, which through another explosion into the air, and thought back to the nap he was supposed to have taken.

"Screw it," he muttered to himself, "Game called on account of shitty situations."

* * *

That's it.

If you want the other side of the Sullivan/Mac convo, go to Jamie Gartland's _To The Last Man Down, V2, _which this story is now being written somewhat in collation with.

And no, I know you're thinking it, but the scene with Arnold and the rocket was NOT inspired from that scene from _Black Hawk Down_. I assure you, I wasn't even thinking about it when I came up with it.

Review please.


	11. Fire Team

Chapter Eleven? Seriously? Hot _damn_.

I think I've gone longer with this then with the original. Old readers, I only went to, what, eight on last one?

Nice…

Anyhoo, XTonberryX, sorry, but Delta Eight's gonna have to be next chapter, because this chapter needs to do some other team. I think everyone's been waiting to hear about this one. Also, e-mail, so I can actually help with your story. That would be nice.

Jamie Gartland- I have handwritten the meeting chapter. Now I need to type and send, so I'll do that soon.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Fire Party

It was now broad daylight in the streets of Raccoon City. The creatures were everywhere, stumbling around the streets, looking as though they were sleepwalking. From the air, it didn't look like anyone was alive, save for the Umbrella forces and their own convoy.

But from the basement of one of the buildings, this proved not to be so. For as one of the dogs stalked by, sniffing its food source out, a pair of eyes peaked out from the cracked window. A pair of gray, battle-hardened eyes; the eyes of a soldier.

The eyes belonged to Sergeant Joe Sanderson, of Delta Five.

-----

"_Four Five going-"_

_But before Howe could finish the transmission, the rotors clipped the entry to the alley. The chopper skidded through the alley and then plowed into the ground cockpit first. It skidded to the other end of the alley and smashed through the brick wall, then came to a halt, the rotors either torn up by shrapnel or torn up by the crash._

_Sanderson opened his eyes, having not even realized he had closed them, and exhaled, having not even realized he had been holding his breath. He sat there for about ten minutes, he didn't even know how long it was. Next to him, Hallings was inhaling and exhaling heavily. But they were alive, and with no apparent injuries. That was a miracle in itself, especially for a Little Bird crash._

"_Shit, Sarge… now a bad time to ask for a furlough?" asked Hallings._

"_Shut up," Sanderson snapped, pulling himself out of the destroyed bird._

_He got on his feet and tested for broken bones just as Shipley and Bielski made their way over, covered in trash from their own little daredevil stunt._

"_That's the last fucking time I ever follow one of your bright ideas," grumbled Shipley, as he pulled a banana peel off his shoulder, "'Drop into the fucking dumpster,' what the fuck was that shit?"_

"_Well, if you had another idea, you shoulda said it," Bielski argued back, "But seeing as how we were about to crash into a building, I don't think we had too many options to go by."_

"_Can it, both of you," Sanderson snapped, "This is a serious situation. No time for your bullshit."_

_Hallings came up, on stand-by with his SAW. The two snipers also took a knee and prepared for anything that came their way. Sanderson, once fully sure they had a good defense up, went up to check the cock-pit._

_The front end of the bird was a complete mess. It had been crumpled up by the impact of the ground, the windshield was broken, and the controls were wrecked. The two pilots were sitting upright in their chairs, blood dripping from their mouths, noses, and ears._

_Sanderson leaned in and checked Howe's pulse. No response. The pilot was KIA. Sanderson cursed._

"_Damn it-"_

_The second he said that, all of a sudden, Wilkes snapped up in his chair and breathed deep. Sanderson leapt back, scared out of his wit, but calmed down when he realized it was just the co-pilot. Wilkes groaned._

"_Jesus Christ on a bike…" he moaned, "How long have I been out?"_

"_Not long. We crashed about ten, fifteen minutes ago," said Sanderson, "How do you feel?"_

"_Like shit," the co-pilot answered, trying to move but wincing and going back into his former position, "My legs hurt real bad, and my head's dizzy. My back feels like it's asleep, but it hurts when I move."_

_Sanderson cursed again. The pilot was fucked up to all sorts of hell. From what he gathered, Wilkes had broken legs, a broken back, and he also had a concussion. It was funny how that worked out. How the pilot is killed and the co-pilot horribly mangled, but nothing bad happens to the other passengers. One of those karma kind of things, he guessed._

_Wilkes was now trying to get the chopper's radio to start working. He didn't even get static to signal no reception. It was just plain old dead._

"_It's…it's not working," he gasped, his voice hoarse._

_From around the corner, there came a series of low, bone-chilling moans and groans. Hallings, in nervousness, swung his SAW to face the corner._

"_The fuck is that?" he exclaimed._

_Sanderson didn't want to think about it, but he knew. Whatever was giving those guys hell back at the LZ was coming their way. And by the sounds of the moans, there were lots of them. And now, he could hear the barking of dogs in between. A large force was headed their way, and they didn't have enough men to hold out for long._

_There was a" slap!" and the sound of a bolt being pulled back and released. Wilkes had whipped out his MP-5k submachine pistol and loaded a fresh magazine into it. Then he pulled out his 9mm, cocked the hammer, and held it in his other hand._

"_Sandy, get your team the hell out of here!" he shouted, "I'll hold them off, buy you enough time!"_

"_Bullshit, we're not leaving you here!" Sanderson stated firmly._

_  
"The hell you aren't!" Wilkes argued back, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm in too much pain; you'd kill me just carrying me up the block. And it would leave you guys exposed to carry a body from one place to another. You're better off just taking your team and getting as far away from here as you can!"_

"_Wilkes-"_

"_SANDY, JUST GO, GODDAM IT!"_

_Sanderson didn't know what to do. Leaving the pilot to his fate was not something he would enjoy doing. But he didn't want his men dying here with him. What Wilkes said was true. Had he had about three extra men with him, they might've stood a chance. But not four. That would leave about two or three carrying him and one to defend. Wilkes was accepting that he wasn't going to make it out of this. That was war. Some guys just knew they wouldn't be going home._

"_HERE THEY COME!"_

_From around the corner, hundreds of civilians stumbled towards their wrecked bird. Sanderson couldn't help but recoil at how dead these people looked. Their skin was pale, their eyes were lifeless, and a nasty stench emitted from them, like they had bathed themselves in onions._

_Delta Five proceeded to fire, but their bullets, which hit them all in the chest, had no lasting effect. Sanderson had known it was pointless, but this was friggin' ridiculous. They should have at least **died** when they were shot. Not keep stumbling towards them like a bunch of drunken idiots shrugging off a light punch._

_There was no point in staying where they were. They had to pull out. But moving Wilkes, in his condition, was bringing death to the co-pilot, who was now emptying the remainder of his clip into the crowd._

"_SANDY! NOW!" he screamed, jamming a new clip in, "PLEASE! JUST GO!!"_

_That did it. He had to pull them out. Sanderson stood up._

"_Fall back! Let's go!" he shouted._

_Hallings covered Shipley and Bielski as they twirled around and fell back to the tail of the bird. As the machine-gunner followed them, Wilkes gave one last shout-out to Sanderson as he left:_

"_Get them out, Sandy… Save everyone that you can."_

-----

Sanderson remembered Wilkes last words as he watched their enemy prowl around. The co-pilot had been right. They had to get the hell out of this city.

"We gotta go," he said, hopping down off the table and turning to his three teammates, "We gotta go now."

"Hang on, I'm almost done."

Shipley was sitting with one leg crossed over the other. He held his helmet in one hand and a yellow marker in the other, and he was writing something on his helmet, deep in concentration.

"Shit, Shipley, can't that wait?" demanded Hallings.

"Nope. Old lady's orders, I think of a name, I write it down right away so I don't forget it. When I get home, I'll have enough names to name the next ten kids."

"You mean, _if_ you get home."

Shipley glanced up towards Hallings.

"No, I mean _when_," he said firmly, "Boy, if you think I'm dyin' in this rat hole, you got another think comin'."

Bielski grinned and chuckled. Hallings turned away as Shipley finished up, capped the marker, put it in his vest pocket, then placed his helmet on his head and fastened it.

"Aiight, let's get movin'. We ain't got all day," he declared, grabbing his M-21.

Bielski kicked down the door and covered the street while Sanderson and Shipley ran across. Then he and Hallings made their move while the other two covered them.

The city was a complete mess. Messier than most, in any case. Cars were crashed into all sorts of places, some in positions the team never knew cars could go in. Windows were smashed, doors were blown open…everywhere they looked showed signs of complete pandemonium.

"Goddam…" Bielski shook his head, "This looks worse than that time in Turkey, huh, Sarge?"

"Yeah," Sanderson answered, examining a dead body on the ground that had been chewed to pieces, "This _is_ worse. These people look like they got eaten, not gassed."

He nudged the head with his foot, when suddenly, the dead's eyes flew open and it bolted upwards. The four Delta soldiers jumped back and aimed their weapons at the dead person as it got up off the floor.

"Mother…" Shipley couldn't finish.

It looked straight at them and lunged. BAM! Sanderson quickly fired his Beretta pistol into its head. The bullet plowed right in and right out, taking anything in the middle with it. It jerked backwards, and then fell back to the ground, truly dead.

The D-Boys stood around, nudging the body with their rifles. This time, nothing happened. Shipley whistled.

"Well, I ain't never heard of nothing like this," he declared.

"I don't think any of us have, Jeff," Bielski replied, "What the hell's going on in this city?"

"I don't know," answered Sanderson, "but I think our first priority is getting to the LZ. They might still need our help."

"Daylight's up. You sure they're still around?" Hallings asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Well, shit, what we waiting for, then?" Shipley began walking towards where they thought the LZ to be, "Boys ain't gonna hold out forever without us. Let's-"

As he moved, there was a BANG! and a bullet missed his foot by mere inches. It was enough to send the Delta sniper flying backwards and behind one of the cars.

"Holy shit! There's a fucking sniper out there!" he proclaimed.

As those words left his mouth, there came a barrage of bullets from another sector. Several men in green uniforms and wielding M-4 semi-automatics were shooting at them from further down the street. The remaining three D-Boys sought cover behind the wrecked cars.

"Who the fuck is that, and why the hell are they shooting at us?" Sanderson demanded, firing his CAR-15 at the opposing force.

Bielski aimed his customized CAR-15 at an enemy soldier who was busy reloading. He aimed carefully at the head, breathed out, and pulled. The bullet passed through his head, killing him in an instant.

"Got one down," the operator called.

Hallings kept getting up to fire three-round bursts and then slamming himself back down. Then he would wait a few seconds and repeat. He wasn't entirely sure he was hitting anything, but then again, was anybody ever sure, when the firing was this hot? He just kept doing his job, firing, ducking, repeating, until he noticed something off to his right.

A trio from the other troop, trying to flank them, their weapons ready. Without waiting or even thinking, the Delta operator aimed and fired his machine-gun at them. The bullets entered their skin, each one sending out a spray of blood upon impact. All three of them fell.

Sanderson fired three rounds and then ducked down for a reload. He ejected the empty clip from his weapon, grabbed a new one out of its pouch, and slammed it in. Then, he grabbed a grenade from his belt, and slid his finger through the pin.

"Frag out!" he called, pulling the pin and throwing the ball-shaped explosive over the cars and down to the opposing force.

Hallings pulled his SAW off the car hood and ducked next to Sanderson as the grenade detonated. Loose rocks and debris flew up and showered down upon the two operators.

Shipley fired his M1911 in one hand while trying to reload his M-21 with his other. This was something he always did, so to him, it was nothing. He fired at the closest targets, hoping to at least wound them until he got his rifle up and running. Once he did, he brought his sniper rifle to his shoulder and began taking concentrated shots. He couldn't miss. All he had to do was glance at a soldier, squeeze, and the man would drop. Missing a shot wasn't even in his vocabulary when he had the M-21 in his hands.

Sanderson peeked his head around the edge of the car. More of them were showing up to replace the ones they had downed. This was too much. As skilled as they were, four Delta operators couldn't last too long against an un-numbered force. They'd run out of ammo, and it was too early in the game to be out now. He moved back behind the car, and, getting up tall enough for his men to see but not to get shot at, tapped his helmet with his hand. Shipley and Bielski made their way over to his and Hallings' position.

"Falling back, on my mark," he told them, "Hallings, lay down cover fire. Bielski, you're first. Shipley, you're right behind him. Hallings, you're with me. Alright, get ready."

Hallings lifted his SAW to his shoulder. Shipley slapped Bielski's shoulder as the latter got ready to sprint.

"COVERING FIRE!"

Hallings fired off a burst from his machine-gun. When he heard the loud rounds, Bielski jumped up and hauled ass over to the alleyway off to the right, jumping over the bodies of the dead soldiers that Hallings had gotten on his way through.

"Alright, Shipley, up!" Sanderson ordered. "COVERING FIRE!"

Hallings again fired another long burst from the SAW. Shipley crossed himself once, for good luck, and then sprinted just as fast as his friend had. Sanderson watched as bullets kicked dirt up all around his friend, while Shipley dodged them like a football player dodging other players on his way towards where Bielski was covering him. He breathed easier when he saw the sniper on the other side.

"Alright, Sarge, you go!" Hallings shouted.

"You be right behind me!" Sanderson ordered.

The machine-gunner fired off a third burst and this time both of them jumped up and ran through the machine-gun and small arms fire. Like Shipley before them, they twisted and turned every which way trying to avoid the bullets. This time, however, Sanderson's foot made contact with one of the dead soldiers and sent him sprawling onto the ground.

As he picked himself up off the ground, the world suddenly seemed to go in slow-mo, and lost the sound. He picked his head up and as he did, his sight turned upon the dead soldier. He examined the body for a time, curiosity overtaking him. The man was dressed in a green jacket, and on the back of the jacket was a giant umbrella with two swords sticking through it and four letters above it…

"SARGE! LET'S MOVE!"

Hallings dropped down and grabbed his sergeant and pulled both of them behind the wall, just in time to dodge the next barrage of bullets.

The four D-Boys kept moving, wanting to put as much distance between themselves and their attackers as they could, at least, until they had enough men to launch a decent counterattack. Bielski led the way, his CAR-15 at arms length, aiming right before backing left through an alleyway. Shipley copied the movement and followed, and then Sanderson and Hallings did the same.

At last, they stopped for a breather. Shipley reached into his back pocket, pulled out his canteen, and unscrewed the top. Taking a sip, he turned his head to his team leader.

"So what now?" he asked.

"Those guys…" Sanderson looked back in the direction they had come. The insignia on the back of their jackets…there was only one explanation.

"Those guys were Umbrella."

Hallings, who had been bent over, catching his breath, snapped his head back up.

"You mean the Umbrella Corporation?" he asked, "I thought they only made medicines."

"You sure, how do you know?" Bielski asked.

"You mean aside from the giant umbrella on the back of their jackets and the letters 'U.B.C.S.' printed on them?" the sergeant said sarcastically.

"Shit," Shipley spit onto the ground calmly, "I thought we were workin' together on this one. Why you think they were sore at us?"

Sanderson shook his head. "I dunno, but they made a big mistake," he said, "When we get to the LZ, we need to take it up with whoever's in charge over there that their boys are wandering around shooting at random people and-"

"Wait, hold on a sec…"

Bielski held up his finger. The Delta Ops. stood in complete silence and listened.

Through the dawn air, they could hear the sound of vehicles driving at mid-speed. By the sound, they were heavily armored trucks, a lot of them, probably a full convoy. They were inching along for the most part, and by the sounds of things, they were taking a lot of fire.

"You think that's Delta Three's boys?" questioned Bielski.

"Only way to find out," Sanderson stated, "Delta Five, on me."

He sped off in the direction of the convoy, the rest of his men trailing directly behind him. The sound got close and closer with every step. The only thing on Sanderson's mind was hope that this was Delta Three with the vehicles, maybe even with the rest of the Delta guys, and they could roll up and get the hell out of this city, where the dead walked and dogs had no skin.

The noise was closer now, and they could distinctly make out the number of trucks and Humvees that were mixed in with the group. There were a lot of them, probably more than were used in the Mogadishu battle. Suddenly, Sanderson was suspicious. If it was there convoy, they sure had found more than just three Humvees and a Jeep. They turned the corner, and then he stopped. But not with relief.

"Get down!" he hissed.

The men going with the convoy, although they wore different uniforms- black, tactical vests- and had different weapons- Tavor TAR-21s-, the giant umbrella on the back of their vests proved they were still Umbrella soldiers. There were about a company's worth, maybe more, maybe less. The shooting was being directed at those things, the ones back at the crash site, with no attention paid to the now-behind-cover Delta soldiers.

"Think they're the same ones?" asked Hallings

Shipley was peering through his M-21's scope, surveying the enemy troops.

"Uniform's different, but Umbrella's Umbrella, no matter how you look it," he said to them.

"Well, what do we do?"

Sanderson glared at the Umbrella soldiers. Their enemy was whatever the hell these things were, and yet they still felt it their job to shoot at them as well. And what of any other Delta soldier that was out there, until the false assumption that this was a co-op assignment? They would probably get slaughtered.

Well, if that was the way they were going to play, then that's how they would play.

"Alright," he turned to the others, "We hit 'em. Sporadic fire all along the line, and concentrated sniper fire on the gunners. Hit them hard, get in close enough to throw grenades. That'll slow them down."

"Sarge, you sure?" Bielski asked uncertainly, "We could just skip them and keep going to the LZ-"

"What, and have them butcher the next Delta team they come across?"

"What about rules of engagement?" Hallings questioned.

"Hallings," Sanderson glared at him long and hard, "We're already engaged."

Shipley and Bielski nodded. They had been shot at first. Anything they did after that, however serious it may be or however many people were killed or wounded, was purely in self-defense. These guys had fucked with the wrong Special Ops. unit.

"OK, two snipers move to your positions. Hallings, when I give the word, you open up with that SAW. Move fast, move hard; give them something to really worry about. Go."

The four Delta soldiers moved into their positions. Shipley and Bielski moved in from behind, the former taking a knee, the other going prone, both picking their targets carefully. Hallings crawled in from the right and settled himself in with some trash, ready to shoot. Sanderson got behind a corner and carefully peered out. The Umbrella boys had no idea they were there. Complete surprise.

He glanced over at Hallings and swiftly made a motion with his hand to open up.

Hallings opened fire, the heavy machine-gun bullets tearing large holes through their vehicles. The mercenaries, in complete surprise, dove to the ground and tore like hell behind some decent cover. The Delta gunner never took his finger off the trigger. They weren't small bursts anymore; it was just full-on, relentless fire.

One of the Umbrella machine-gunners turned his gun onto the source of their assaulters. He located the gunner, buried in the rubble, shooting what appeared to be an M-249. His thought was to shoot to wound, just to get information on why he was shooting.

That was the last thing to pass through his mind before the bullet did.

Shipley looked through his scope as his headshot dropped the man right out of his turret, then turned his weapon on the others and started firing.

Sanderson fired three shots, then reached for his belt and pulled another grenade out. Hallings stopped firing for a second and did the same.

"GRENADE!"

Both explosives were thrown into the besieged Umbrella convoy. When they saw it, the other men tried to get out of their as fast as they could right before it blew up. Rock and debris was thrown up from one grenade, and the second explosion sent a Humvee going up in flames.

The convoy was soon in smoke. It was hard to tell whether or not there were any targets left to shoot at. Bielski and Shipley only fired when they were sure they would hit someone, but the smoke was so great that it was rarely so.

Sanderson figured it was time they split. They had done their damage. But there was still one more thing.

"LAW up!" he shouted to the machine-gunner.

Hallings had a LAW 80 strapped to his back that he brought along as a just-in-case. The rocket launcher was very light, extendable with flip-down sights, and could only be fired once. When he heard the news, Hallings got up and un-strapped it from his back. Flipping down the sights, he aimed through them towards one of the surviving trucks.

When he fired, the rocket made a loud WHOOSH! sound. It seemed like slow-mo again as Sanderson watched the rocket eject from its tube, whiz through the air, then plow through the smoke, and, seconds later, score another fiery mushroom cloud and deafening explosion.

They had done their jobs.

"Alright, Delta Five! Fall back!" he shouted, getting up and running back to their original alleyway.

His three men followed right behind him. At the same time behind them, the leader of one of those Umbrella teams, one of the only ones not to suffer a casualty, was pulling his team and the remains of the other one out of the smoking, twisted remains. But the D-Boys didn't look back. They kept moving forward, weapons ready for encounter, towards the LZ, their blood pumping and their spirits high.

They were back in the game.

* * *

Nice.

Alright, next chapter re-joins Delta Eight. Stay tuned.

Review please.


	12. Losing A Man

Chapter Twelve, up.

Now to see what Delta Eight's been up to.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Losing a Man

BAM!

The bullet passed through the attacker's head and sent him flying backwards to the ground. Another BAM! and the guy next to him went down to, also with a headshot.

As they continued to fire, Tom began to feel the hopelessness of the predicament. They were bottlenecked into an alleyway, with their enemy on both sides, closing in fast. He and Jackson had the rear covered; Nelson and Cribbs secured the front. But they couldn't hold much longer.

Up front, Cribbs was leaning against the wall, trying to keep his M-4 straight. His fatigue, alongside the blood flowing from his multiple bite wounds, was taking its toll. His skin was pale, his eyes blood-red, black, puffy circles had grown under them. He aimed at one of the men, but the world was spinning.

BAM! The bullet passed through his target's chest. The man stumbled a bit, but kept going.

"Cribbsey, headshots, come on!" Nelson yelled, firing single shots from his Beretta. Cribbs nodded wearily, and tried aiming again, but was again distorted by his vision. His next shit pierced the man's elbow.

"Shit, SARGE!" Nelson called back, in the midst of reloading his pistol.

Tom turned and saw Cribbs, barely standing straight, moments away from receiving his thousandth bite mark that day. He patted Jackson on the back, who was still firing bursts from his SAW, then turned around, leveled his CAR-15, and fired. Another headshot, another kill for Delta Eight.

Cribbs began to slide to the ground. He looked exhausted, and he was breathing heavily. Nelson moved over, placed his teammate's arm around him, and gently hoisted him up.

"Sarge, we gotta take cover! Cribbs isn't doing so well!" he called.

Tom looked around, trying to find a proper exit from their sticky situation. His eyes fell upon a wooden door leading into the apartment complex next to them. Without a word, he ran up and forcefully kicked the door open.

"Inside, double time!"

Nelson dragged the wounded corporal through the door. Jackson backed through, still firing minor bursts. Tom followed, closing the door directly behind them.

As his team made their way up the long stairs, he made sure the door had some sort of barricade, as he wasn't in the mood for another breakthrough while they tried to sort out what the hell was wrong with Cribbs. He locked all four locks and then stuffed a chest in front of it. Then, for one last desperate attempt, he took out one of his remaining Claymores and set it up so that whoever opened the door would have it be the last thing he ever did. He doubted this would work- he vividly remembered the ones who survived the minefield back at the LZ- but it never hurt to try.

His dirty work finished, he grabbed his rifle and hurried up the stairs after his men. He found them in the farthest room on the left. Cribbs was laying on the bed, looking as though he were on Death's Door. Nelson was examining his wounds, a confused and worried expression on his face. The sergeant went over to where Jackson was by the window and joined him at looking outside.

Those things patrolled the streets, though they moved like stumbling drunks. Above the city, clouds occupied the sky, though even though there was no sunlight, Tom's watch told him it was day. 12:42 p.m. It was early afternoon. And their situation hadn't changed one bit.

"This is insane," muttered Jackson next to him, "We've been on the ground for sixteen hours, we haven't met a single friendly face since we left the LZ, we've been attacked by half-dead people, dogs, and giant-ass lizard things, one of our guys has been chewed up like fat kids eating cake, we ate soup that came from a severed human head, and we have no radio contact." he turned to look at his sergeant, "I miss anything?"

"Other than we're the only ones still alive in this insane asylum?" Tom asked, "No. How we off on the ammo?"

"We should have enough, if we don't keep running into more firefights. I'll do an official count in a bit."

A sigh from behind them brought Nelson over to where they were. He sat down in a chair, took out his canteen, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip. Tom and Jackson turned to him, speaking in low voices.

"How is he?" asked Tom, nodding towards his wounded friend.

"He's got a low pulse," Nelson answered grimly. "Blood pressure's dropping. One of those bites was deep enough that it tore an artery, but I can't determine if it's a main one or not yet."

"And if it is?" Jackson just had to ask.

Nelson sighed again and shook his head. Tom looked at Cribbs, lying unconscious on the bed, blood seeping through the bandages covering the wounds on his face and body. He couldn't believe it. After all they had been through, after all the firefights they've seen over the last year or so, he was going to be losing his best friend in this back-alley shithole, by a bunch of bite wounds caused by crazed humans.

"He's lost a lot of blood," said Nelson sullenly, "And it just keeps pouring out. It won't stop."

"Can we do a blood transfusion or something?" the sergeant questioned, turning back to his other teammate, "Cribbs and I are both AB positive. Do you think maybe you could-?"

"I've never done one in the field before," the medic replied, shaking his head. "Even if I had, I wouldn't risk it. Blood transfusions are tricky. There's a chance he could react badly to the new blood."

"So what the fuck do we do?" Tom stood up and angrily began pacing back and forth, "How do we make it so Cribbs doesn't die?"

"I've gotta find the torn artery," Nelson answered, "And then, I've got to repair it. It's his only hope."

"OK… can I do anything to help?"

"Glad you asked," his friend stood up, "Because I don't think I can do this without your help."

Before long, the three Delta soldiers stood over their wounded friend. Tom and Nelson were kneeling, with the medic's equipment with them, prepared to get started. Jackson stood back, looking on anxiously.

"So which one is it?" Tom asked.

"This one." Nelson indicated to his shoulder bite, the one he had gotten back at the LZ, "Guy's teeth went in deep."

"And you think he bit the artery?"

"It's the only explanation to the bleeding. I have a hunch on which one it is, but until I'm sure, I need to dig through the wound and see if there are any vessels ripped up. That'll at least give me some clue."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"This is gonna cause him a lot of pain. I need you to keep him calm, keep him from going crazy. Otherwise, it's just gonna make things a hell of a lot worse for all of us."

"OK…let's do this."

"Fuck, I can't watch this," Jackson went over to the window when Tom stopped him.

"Jackson, go check out the rest of the building," he ordered, "Make certain we're the only things living here."

"Anything to avoid having to watch this shit," the machine-gunner muttered, clutching his SAW tightly as he left.

Nelson looked at the deep wound as he snapped on his white rubber gloves. He took a deep breath, knowing full well that however hard this was going to be for him, it was gonna be just as hard for Sarge and thrice fold for Cribbs. But it had to be done in order to help him. Pain for pleasure; just like the song. He looked at Tom and nodded.

"Alright…ready?"

"Yeah…" In truth, he was anything but. But there were also a lot of things that had hit him in the last month that he hadn't been ready for. This was just one more.

"One…"

Cribbs whimpered. Even unconscious, Tom believed the corporal had heard every word they had said.

"Two…"

He gulped. This was gonna get ugly.

"Three."

-----

Even half a floor away, Jackson could hear and even feel the full effect of Cribbs' pain in his scream. He shuddered. It fully reminded him of a Special Op. in Turkey when this one guy had taken an RPG round to the leg. By the time they had gotten him out of there, about twelve hours later, the guy was still screaming.

He shook it off and continued searching the apartments. Each one was the same; kick down a door, search room to room, pray to God there was nothing to shoot at that would shoot back…or eat him, whichever was worse.

His nerves didn't seem to want to agree with him out here. It was totally fucked up. At times, he was calm. Mainly when they were out on the streets, and he was using his SAW for use other than something to use to rest his head on when he was on guard. But then, like now, in situations when they were staying in one place for too long a time, he was edgy. He just could not keep himself still; he had to move around, be outside.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was fucking claustrophobic. Or maybe he just craved action. Back at Barricade Cabin, the time he had felt the calmest was during the assault, despite all the hell and shit they had gone through.

He kept pressing forward, ready for any and everything. Only one door left, and then he could either go secure the front door or be forced to head back and listen to Cribbs writhe in agony as they tried to repair his torn artery. Fun times. He moved up and kicked down the door.

At first, he didn't see her. He just glanced around the small room, left, then right, and then turned to leave when he saw her. A woman, probably in her early twenties, was sitting in an armchair, just staring out the window. He couldn't help but be reminded of _Psycho_, right near the end, where the lady came up behind the old woman in the chair and found out she was nothing but skeleton. He made sure his finger was right on the trigger, just in case it turned out to be another one of those things outside, and kept walking forward, slowly. Each step came down on the floorboards, causing them to creak, and causing Jackson to want to cut them off and throw them over near the door to wait for him. He still looked cautiously around. This whole thing didn't seem right.

He was so intent on making sure nothing was going to stab him in the back that he almost walked straight into the chair the lady was sitting in. He gulped, for the umpteenth time, reached forward, and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Excuse me…m'am?" he stuttered, trying hard to keep his voice controlled. The woman made no movement, not even acknowledging his presence.

"It's OK, m'am. We're with U.S. Special Forces. We're here to get you and anyone else out of here. Don't worry, we have everything under control."

That was the way to go about it. Keep them calm-even if he wasn't- and above all, make no mention of what unit they were really with. Sarge would be proud.

But the hag still didn't make any movement. Jackson was perplexed. Maybe she was deaf, and had her hearing aid turned off. He put his hand on her shoulder, gently shaking it.

"M'am-?"

All of a sudden, her head twisted and then fell clean off her shoulders and rolled onto the floor. Blood spurted out of the severed neck in tiny geysers, one at a time at three second intervals. Jackson threw himself backwards, his SAW pointed at the woman's now headless corpse.'

"Jesus Fuck!" he cursed, "What the fuck is it with civilians and their goddam heads today?"

He took several deep, semi-controlled breaths when something fell right on top of his bandana. Something wet, liquid-like and slimy. He put his hand on his bandana and brought it away to see what it was. He couldn't tell, but just bringing it to his face made him wish his allergies were with him. It smelled repulsive.

"What the fuck-?"

Right as he said that, another long slimy droplet fell right between his legs. He stared at the wet puddle in front of him, then slowly picked his head up towards the ceiling. And instantly wished he hadn't when he did.

The water droplets coming down were actually drool. And he knew this because it was coming from the creature fixated on the ceiling. It was big, maybe the size of a really big dog, but uglier. It had reddish skin, three sharp claws on each…paw, or whatever they were, and its brain was showing right on top of its fucking head. As Jackson noticed it, it noticed him. How it did was a mystery to the D-Boy, as it had no eyes, but it must've smelled him or something, because its mouth opened its mouth to reveal two full sets of razor sharp teeth. And if that wasn't bad enough, the final, most notably disgusting touch, was its tongue, which flew out its mouth and flung around farther and looser than a tongue should have to go. And right now, the drool flying from it told that it was hungry.

"Oh, there's no way my luck is this bad," muttered Jackson to himself.

The monster let out a growl, kicked off the ceiling, and dove at him. The machine-gunner rolled right and crawled under a table to the other side. The thing turned its head to him and launched its tongue at him. It caught around Jackson's leg and tried to pull him back.

Jackson grabbed a hold of a chair leg and tried to pull himself out of its grip, but it was like the tongue had a few extra muscles of its own, because it wasn't giving. Rolling his entire arm around the leg, he lifted his SAW up as best he could and aimed it at the creature.

There was a low burst of fire. The whatever-it-was had its body, head, and tongue peppered with the heavy bullets tearing through them. The tongue was torn in half, the upper half still attached around his leg. The rest of the body flew backwards, hit the wall, and fell to the floor and did not get back up.

Jackson pulled himself out from under the table, kicking the tongue off of his leg. He sat up and glared at the alien's body ruefully.

"Fuckin' bitch-"

There was a growl behind him. He turned just in time to see another one of those things, probably attracted by the noise, poised and ready to jump.

"Aw, _hell_ no-!"

That was all he was able to get out before it lunged.

-----

Somewhere down the hall, there was another burst of machine-gun fire, this time accompanied by a loud screaming. Tom looked up at the sounds worriedly.

"What was that?" he asked aloud, then called, "Jackson?"

There was no answer. The fire had stopped, bringing only silence. He didn't like it. What was going on?

"Shit!" he heard Nelson muttering frantically behind him. "Shit shit shit shit shit-"

"What is it? What's wrong?" Tom returned quickly to the bedside.

"I was right," the medic replied. "It's the superior thoratic artery. Look-" he pointed to a torn, slimy stub sticking out of the whole in his shoulder. "Bite didn't just tear a piece of it. It ripped out an entire section of it. I'm amazed he hasn't died sooner."

"Jesus, can you do anything?"

"Not much…I can try to fix it, but there's not much hope... here I go."

Cribbs gave a cry of pain as Nelson tried to clamp the stub while looking for the other end at the same time. Tom grabbed his friend's hand and grasped it firmly for support.

"M…muh…" stuttered Cribbs.

"What is it, buddy? Whaddya need?" Tom questioned.

"Mo…mor…phine...morphine…"

"Morphine," he turned to Nelson, "He wants some morphine.

The medic paid no attention as he kept going about his work. Cribbs looked at him painfully.

"Morphine…" he again whined.

"I can't, buddy. I'm sorry."

"Nelson," Tom angrily grabbed his teammate's arm, "give him some morphine already-"

"What, and kill him?" the medic retorted, annoyed, ripping out of his team leader's grasp. "Giving him morphine, in his state, would be the same as taking my combat knife and driving it straight through his heart. Trust me; I'm doing him a huge favor right now."

Suddenly, Cribbs began coughing and sputtering. And then, his entire body began jerking and twitching, his breathing getting more clotted and raspy. Both D-Boys quit arguing and Nelson returned to his work desperately.

"Shit," he cursed, "C'mon, Ryan. Don't die on me. Not now, damn it." He desperately tried to clamp the artery as best he could. Tom could only watch on. He felt so damn helpless. Ryan was dying, and there was nothing he could do to help him.

Suddenly-

BAM!

The door flew open. Jackson dove inside, covering in slime and blood, looking slightly deranged. He turned onto his back, fired a quick burst from his SAW, then kicked the door closed, got back up, and locked it. He fell with his back against the door, panting.

"I..." he panted, "fucking…hate…this…town…"

"Sarge."

Tom took his eyes off Jackson and looked back over to the bed. The medic shook his head.

"He's going…I've done all I can…"

Tom's heart sank a few feet. This was it. The parting of the road.

"S…Sarge…"

Cribbs motioned for him to come over. Nelson stood up to allow the sergeant to sit down. The corporal then motioned for him to lean it. He did, and then he whispered something into his ear. As he spoke, he teared up. Tom wiped his eyes and nodded.

"Yeah… I will, buddy."

And with that, Cribbs leaned his head back against the pillow, drew his final breath, and sighed, his eyes widening and going out of slack. There was no further movement from him.

"Fuck…" Tom turned back to Jackson and Nelson, who stood disbelieving, sadly, and all three of them said nothing. There was nothing more to say. It was just the three of them now.

Cribbs was dead.

They had lost a man.

* * *

Later, Cribbsey. We'll miss ya, buddy.

Review please.


	13. Discoveries

Chapter Thirteen up.

This chapter splits in between the two teams of the last two chapters, and a pilot.

**Before you read any further**: people who read, I need your opinion on something, so I REALLY, _really_ need you to review this chapter. I'm thinking of doing another RE fic, this one rated M, and it's this almost Departed/Brigadoon kinda fic. If the idea interests you, or any other thing you'd like to ask me of it before giving a response, then PLEASE review or message me and let me know, so I'll know if this story would be a good idea. Even if you're just a random person, tell me if you'd be interested.

Thank you. Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: Discoveries

"Jack."

Hughes didn't acknowledge the speaker. He kept his eyes glued to the ground, hoping to see some sign of someone.

"Jack," Greeno said again, "We need to land for re-fueling."

"Wait a minute."

"Jack, we've been flying around now for almost a whole day. How we haven't run out by now is a miracle. We need to land."

Hughes continued to brush it off and flew around. He needed to be there. That's what Greeno didn't seem to get. Delta Eight and the other guys needed them. One less chopper in the sky as it was was bad enough. Two would be detrimental. If something happened down there, he didn't want to miss it simply because he was getting more gas in his bird.

"_Four Eight, this is Four One, land now for re-fueling. Land the bird, Jack. Over."_

Briggs' words, however, were God. He was the lead pilot in the air, and he was calling the shots. Hughes hesitated, but gave up. He couldn't ignore an order. Briggs would take care of things.

"_Four Eight, going back to base. Over."_

-----

Tom stared at Cribbs' body as he covered him up with a blanket.

"We can't just leave him here," stated Jackson.

"What else can we do?" Nelson asked. "It's not like we have a car to drive him around in."

"Well, shit, we can carry him-"

"For how long?" the sergeant demanded, turning to confront them. "Days? Weeks? Let's face it, we have no idea how long we're gonna be down here for. We're not gonna be dragging a body around for a long period of time."

"It just doesn't feel right, Sarge. Leaving him here like this," Jackson said, glancing sadly at his former teammate.

"We're gonna come back for him, OK?" Tom insisted, "When we meet up with the convoy, we'll come back here, and we'll pick him up."

This seemed to be good enough for the others, but none of them were really happy about it. But then again, no one would be happy with their friend lying dead on a bed in some back-alley town like this. It was just something they had to live with. However bad it was for them, however hard.

Before getting up, the sergeant reached over and grabbed Cribbs' M1911 and remaining clips and stuffed them with his gear. It just seemed like the right thing to do. The corporal had loved that pistol. Always ejecting the clip into his hand and shoving it back in whenever he was bored. He would've wanted it put to good use. And that's what it was going to do.

"Alright, let's move it out."

Tom got up and joined the others. They stopped and gave one final respectful glance to the body.

"Rest in peace, buddy," whispered Jackson. "We'll get those bastards for ya."

It seemed like the appropriate thing to say. They were out for revenge. They were going to get back at those cannibals that had done this to Cribbs. Every single one of those freaks was going to get their just punishment.

With that thought in mind, they all turned to leave. They were right at the door when they heard a low, hair-raising:

"_Uuuuuuuuuuuuuh…"_

All three men stopped dead-cold at the door. They just stood still for a few moments. Then Tom and Nelson turned to Jackson while he turned to them.

"Please tell me that was you," the sergeant said softly.

The machine-gunner opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, there was another, louder moan. And not the one you'd normally catch your brother and his girlfriend making. In fact, that kind of moan probably would've been more preferred at that given moment. In a simultaneous gulp, the three heads turned around to find the source of this moan.

And couldn't believe their eyes when they saw.

Ryan Cribbs, their deceased comrade, had sat up in his bed, the blanket having fallen off of his body, and was in the process of getting off the bed and onto his feet. When he did, he stared at his comrades and slowly approached them, his arms outstretched.

"C-C-Cribbsey?" Tom couldn't believe his eyes. He blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, then blinked again, just to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He wasn't.

"How…is…he…?" Nelson tried to get out. Jackson just stood there with his mouth wide open.

Cribbs got closer to his friends, arms still outstretched, eyes staring blankly. And then Tom realized, too late, the difference between the old Cribbs and the present one. His skin was white with death; his eyes were vacant and dead-looking. And the way he moved towards them with a lazy yet determined attitude made him see exactly what was going on.

Cribbs had switched to the other side…involuntarily.

"Oh, sh-"

Before he could finish, Cribbs growled viciously and grabbed at his former best friend, trying to take a bite out of him. Tom did his best to hold him off, but this new Cribbs had strength the old one never had. The way they struggled now, you would never have known Cribbs had been so weak right before he had "died." Cribbs brought his teeth close to his team leader's neck to try to bite, but with all his might, Tom slowly pushed him back away.

That was when Jackson and Nelson snapped out of it, grabbed Cribbs, and threw him backwards to the ground. Tom took out his Beretta and aimed it at his old comrade, while the other two aimed their primary weapons at him. Cribbs got back up, his expression nasty. He hadn't said a single word through the entire thing. He just glared evilly and-was that hunger? - at Tom, who gulped.

"Ryan…don't, man…"

Too late. Cribbs lunged forward again, mouth wide open. Tom closed his eyes and put his finger around the trigger just as his friend's mouth landed on the barrel.

BAM!

The 9mm bullet flew straight out the back of Cribbs' head just under the helmet. The former D-Boy flew backwards, fell against the bed, and sat there, unmoving.

Tom stood there, not moving, the smoking Beretta still in his hands, though they were shaking, and pointed at Cribbs' now really dead body. Finally, he spoke, his voice as shaky as his hands.

"Can someone please explain as to why I just had to do that?" he asked.

"What…what just happened?" Nelson asked, transfixed. "He was dead. I'm a fucking medic, I know a dead man when I see him, and this man was fucking DEAD!"

"What the hell happened in this city?" demanded Jackson, "I mean, everything that's been going on…you'd think these people were…I dunno, _zombies_, or something-"

And then Tom realized again.

The guys at the LZ…the ones back at the house… the people on the streets…Cribbs… they were all the same. The way the moved, the way they acted. Their eyes, their skin…the way they ripped into victims with their teeth. The way they went down with a single bullet to the head, when all other places were immune to them. The way Cribbs had turned into one of them, hours after they had landed…hours after he had been bitten.

"Son of a bitch," he shook his head. "I spent most of my teenage life watching those movies, and yet I can't even recognize it when I see it with my own eyes."

"Whaddya mean, Sarge?" Jackson inquired.

"You said it yourself, Jax," Tom replied, with a sad, knowing smirk. "Zombies."

"Wha-?" But he stopped himself. It dawned on him. And nelson too. Both men turned to Cribbs' body, then back at their sergeant in disbelief.

"No…no, Sarge, that's bullshit."

"For once, Jackson's right, Sarge. Zombies…it just can't happen-"

"Look-" Tom pointed at Cribbs' body. "Case in point right there. He was dead; we all felt his pulse. And he still gets back up, in which he then proceeds to try and bite my neck off until I put him down with a single bullet…_to the fucking head! _Guys, that's what's going on! Something has turned the people here into…mindless, skin-eating, blood drinking, undead freaks!"

"Well, what about those lizard-fuckers? And those giant-ass red bastards with the tongues?"

"I don't know. But we're gonna find out. We owe it to Cribbs, we owe it to Martin; we fucking owe it to every single fucker out there in this city, dead or alive. We're Delta, boys. We're not dying out here. not in this shithole. We're gonna find what the hell's going on, and we're getting the fuck out of here."

"HOO-AH!" The other two chanted, high-fiving each other.

"Let's move out, then."

Several minutes later, with Cribbs covered up and the Claymore at the door disarmed and back in its pouch, the three remaining members of Delta Eight were back out in the city.

A new determination in their step.

-----

BAM!

The door was kicked down off its hinges. Shipley and Bielski burst in, weapons at the ready, glancing around the dark room for anything that was going to jump out at them. Room was cleared.

Sanderson popped in next, followed by Hallings, who walked in backwards as he had his SAW trained out on the street. The Delta Five sergeant squinted. It was dark everywhere. There would be no easy way of clearing this building out.

"Alright, PNVs, on."

The four D-Boys pulled out their night vision and adjusted them to their helmets. Sanderson flipped his on over his eyes. Now things were looking a little better. He motioned for them to move forward with him.

The foursome moved together, Sanderson up front, Shipley and Bielski in the middle, Hallings covering the rear. They moved as one, walking together, stopping together, stalking together. Hallings turned every now and again, just to make sure they weren't being followed by something. In two hours, they cleared three floors of the ten-floor building.

The more they walked, the more pissed off Sergeant Sanderson got with the whole situation. Why were they even bothering to clear a building? They shouldn't even be in this fucking city! Things had gone downhill the minute they had boarded the Little Bird. They had crashed, they had been ambushed, and they had laid waste to a convoy from the Umbrella Corporation, why they were even in this city a mystery to them. And to make matters worse, they had no idea where the hell everybody else was.

They had found the LZ about an hour ago; completely deserted. No sign of anyone there. They had tried to raise the ground convoy on the net, but all they received was static. So, with no other option, they took off, to where, none of them knew. They were going blind in a darkened city.

He ordered a halt. Just a quick rest. They hadn't rested in hours, and he personally needed a break. Something to make him stop and collect his thoughts for the time being.

"Ship."

Shipley looked up. Bielski was tying his boot, but motioned for him to scootch over to where he was, which he did.

"What?"

"We've got someone in the door to my right." Shipley glanced over his friend at the door. "No, don't look. Keep whispering. Just so they don't know we're on to them."

"How do you know?"

"Heard some movement on the other side. Two, three of them at the most."

"What do you want to do?"

"When Sarge gives the word to move out, we're gonna give them all a little howdy-doody," Bielski gripped his CAR-15 firmly. Shipley nodded and did the same with his M-21.

"Alright, let's move it out," Sanderson threw his arm forward and resumed his squat position moving forward. Bielski nodded to Shipley and got up to follow when-

BAM!

Sanderson whirled around. His two friends had just kicked down the closet door to their right and had their weapons trained inside, shouting at the top of their lungs.

"OUT! OUT! EVERYBODY OUT! LET'S GO, LET'S GO! MOVE IT!"

Slowly but surely, three people came out of the closet, hands up. Sanderson and Hallings joined the other two in ordering them out and onto the ground.

"DOWN! LET'S GO! DOWN ON YOUR KNEES! HANDS UP! LET'S SEE YOUR HANDS!"

They obeyed. Looking closer, Sanderson could tell none of these kids were a day older than nineteen. But it didn't matter. He'd seen kids out there that were just as vicious as the adults were. He slung his CAR-15 across his shoulder and pulled out his Beretta and aimed it at their heads.

"Alright, who are you?" he demanded.

"Jesus Christ, man," one of them- a boy, short, with long blonde hair and a surfer attitude- said, annoyed. "Can't a couple kids hide out in a fuckin' closet without getting shit?"

Sanderson responded to that with a swift kick to his stomach. The kid lurched forward in pain, but the Delta sergeant paid it no mind. He grabbed the kid by the hair, hoisted him back up, and placed the barrel of the gun against his head. The kid started at the gun and started shaking with fear.

"Leave him alone! He's scared!"

The only female of the group was shouting at him. She was tall, thin, with light black hair that fell just past her shoulders and innocent brown eyes that felt as though they pierced right through him. She spoke with one of those British accents one would hear if they were watching a Jason Isaacs movie. Sanderson could tell she was just as scared as this kid was, but she could still keep her composure. That took guts. But he still didn't back down.

"Look, we're not those things outside," she insisted, more calmly.

"Yeah? And how are we supposed to tell that?" he demanded.

"Well, for starters, we're talking in a humane language," the third member of the group- a male with light brown hair that was slicked up in the front-replied. "Oh, and showing insurmountable fear at the sight of loaded guns pressed up against our heads."

"Maybe we should shoot you in the gut, just to make sure," said Bielski, clicking the safety off his CAR-15 and aiming it at the kid's stomach.

"No." Sanderson lowered his handgun and pushed his friend's weapon down. "They're safe."

He looked down at them. "Alright, you'll be coming with us," he told them. "Move quietly, listen to my men. Ship, Biels, stay with them."

They moved out again, more cautiously this time, as they now had three civilians as their charges. They now moved with Sanderson and Bielski up front, Shipley and Hallings in the rear, the three kids in between. Sanderson groaned inwardly. Things were now going to get even harder. They always did when civilians were thrown into the mix. The job became more baby-sitting than anything. But it had to be done.

Finally, they arrived at a cafeteria, a good resting spot. He ordered Hallings to cover the door and for Shipley and Bielski to start looking through the pantries for anything to eat. They'd eat some now, hold the rest for later. In combat, getting food was a blessing. But you had to make it last. You never could know when the next time you'd come across food would be. Every morsel had to last.

The two guys went up to the counter while the two snipers began looking for the food. Sanderson went over to the coffee machine and checked it. Still a fresh batch inside. Gleefully, he took out his empty-canteen and began filling her up. Having fresh coffee would certainly make the trip better.

He glanced at his watch. They had been on the ground now for twenty hours or so. The sunlight version of the day was coming to an end. Sighing, he glanced up.

The girl was sitting by the window, not speaking, not moving. Just looking out into the now-setting sun. Getting a second cup of coffee, he went over to her and squatted down.

"Here," he gave her the cup. "Drink up. You're gonna need the energy."

She took it without a word. Sanderson took a sip from his canteen and stared out into the city.

"Hard to believe…twenty-four hours ago, I was back at the base, thinking this was going to be a simple mission." He chuckled. "Apparently, I got the wrong information."

She smiled, not gaily, but a small, sad smile.

"What unit are you in?" she asked casually.

"We're with a small infantry unit a few clicks outside town," he answered right away. He had had to use this card for years. "When we got the call, we mounted up and came in to help."

She didn't buy it.

"I may not be military-knowledged," she replied, "but I know Delta when I see it."

He hesitated. This was a turn he had never crossed before. But that had been in other countries when people were scared enough to ask questions. She still had that vibe of remaining in control. He went along with it.

"And what makes you think I'm with Delta?" he asked simply.

"I saw the Little Birds fly in last night. Infantry doesn't come in by air."

"That's not entirely true-"

"And the gear you guys are carrying is more sophisticated than anything a normal infantry unit would carry into a combat zone."

She had him there. He kept staring out the window.

"Well…my C.O. always said that, if I ever told anyone what unit I was with… I'd be off it," he answered blandly.

She took this as her answer, and just stared at him.

"So what team are you?" she asked.

"…I'm team leader for Delta Five," he sighed, giving up. Then, turning back to her and cocking an eyebrow, he asked, "What do you know about Delta?"

Her smile faded, and she bit her lip and went back to staring out the window.

"My ex…he's with the unit," she replied, "He made it about a year ago. I guessed from his letters."

"Seriously?" Now Sanderson's interest was piqued. If she had relations with someone in his unit, then he might know who it was.

"What's your name?"

He knew all of his friends' girlfriends, wives, and exes were. So he figured it was better to ask her name, and he could figure it out from there. She turned back to him.

"Me?" she asked. He nodded impatiently. She smiled for the first real time.

"I'm Anna."

* * *

Yup. Good ending, eh?

Next chapter's gonna be a doozy.

Stay tuned.

And please review!


	14. Ambush

Chapter Fourteen up.

So I guess nobody wants that story, eh?

Well, I _am_ honored to have been added to the "Fanfiction Worth Reading" C2 archive. I don't know if that actually means anything, but the fact that it says "worth reading" tells me that people actually like this fic. This makes me _very_ happy.

Anyhoo; this chapter's a big doozy of a chapter. There's gonna be gun battles, explosions, guys getting shot, guys getting killed, graveyards, and, of course, the Nemesis.

Just a few of the awesome and whiz-bang things to look forward to in Chap, 14 of _Resident Evil: Another Side, Another Nightmare:_

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: Ambush

The convoy pulled up right in front of the graveyard. Sergeants Waters and Arnold parked their Jeep, hopped out with weapons at the ready, and stepped forward. Their eyes scanned the dark, creepy patch of land wearily.

"Y'know, if these things are zombies like I think they are," said Waters, "then this is probably where they like to hang."

"We could just go around it," Arnold replied. "There's no need to place our guys at risk for something we're not even sure of."

"Naw, might as well," the other replied. "It might boost morale, wiping an entire sector of these freaks."

"Alright, so here's what we'll do." Arnold slung his M-4 on his shoulder and turned to Waters. "I'll take my team and steer the convoy around and wait by the exit. You'll take your team and do a mopping sweep of the graveyard, clean it out. Sound easy enough for you new boys?"

"Easy for us, but what about you old-timers?" Waters shot back. "Sure I shouldn't leave Ski or Mabrey behind with your group for support?"

"Delta Three's been handling itself since Desert Storm, kid. I think we can manage waiting in the cars for you girls to finish your shopping."

"Alright," the Delta Two sergeant grinned, and shook his friend's hand. "We'll see you on the other side."

"Yup. Good luck."

"Delta Two, on me!"

Waters tapped his helmet with fist. The three men on his team hopped down from the turrets and ran over to join them. Arnold hopped into his Jeep and waved the four Delta boys off as they moved into the graveyard.

The plan was simple: one team cuts through the graveyard; the other team goes around with the vehicles and waits for them. The first team looks for survivors and mops up resistance, and the second one reinforces their escape route. Then they'd roll up and go look somewhere else.

What could possibly go wrong?

-----

Captain Hannigan peered through his binoculars. He saw one of the Delta teams go through entrance of the graveyard, while the other one drove off and took a turn at the corner. He smirked.

"One goes through the trap," he said, "the other goes around. Both end up at the same point."

He turned to his men; about a platoon and a half's worth of riflemen, machine-gunners, and snipers. This was just a small fragment of the men under his command. The two Umbrella units sent in were now divided into three factions; the Special Forces unit, under Sergeant Hoss, was on the East side of town. He gave half of his own U.B.C.S unit to Lieutenant Spinelli, and took the rest under his own wing. They would ambush the remaining teams, and take them out, before they got back to base and became more trouble for Umbrella.

"Snipers on the roof," he ordered. "Wait for a good shot. We'll open up once Rogers fires the first shot. I want none of them getting away, you understand? None of them."

-----

Waters peeked out from behind the gravestone. Ahead, it looked empty, completely uninhabited. And yet, something was out there. Something…someone…

He looked back towards the others. The effect of this whole ordeal was taking its toll. Mabrey's hands were shaking; Owens had beads of sweat running down his face. Slowenski, however, was amazingly calm. The sergeant wished he could be the same right then.

Something moved off to his left. He glanced. A zombie walked there, shuffling his feet, moaning casually as if it were on a pleasure stroll. It was about 100 meters away; an easy shot.

He casually raised his rifle and peered down the scope. He could see close up the rotten flesh, the sunken, unfocused eyes, the drool sliding down his open mouth. He scrunched his face in disgust. Even though he was pretty much used to it by now, he still couldn't get over how despicable these vile creatures were.

Alls more the reason to put 'em out of their misery.

He squeezed off a round. The bullet made a loud crack as it exited the rifle and went through the zombie's head. He smirked with satisfaction as the body crumpled, dead again.

At first, he was pleased with himself, but then, after a moment of consultation, he cursed himself for his stupidity. Anyone within a five mile radius could've heard that shot being fired, and if they _were_ zombies, they would be coming down on them in a heartbeat. Zombies had good hearing. That, and the quietness of the night in this dead city, and anyone, dead or alive, couldn't not hear a rifle being fired.

He turned back to the others and nodded. They started moving forward, one at a time, leapfrogging. He pulled out front, Slowenski right behind him, Mabrey and Owens covering the rear.

They had cleared three sections of the graveyard, and now they only had one main one to go. And, if luck prevailed, they would complete this and roll up as if they were never there.

Somehow, there was no way he could believe they could be _that_ lucky.

-----

The sounds of the roaring engines soon died off as Delta Three pulled up to the exit of the park. Arnold got out of his driver's seat, finger on the trigger to his M-4, and went around to the other side, by the gate.

The rest of his team went on stand-by. Lake climbed up through the turret and manned the .50 cal on the top of his Humvee. Atkins placed his M-60 on the hood of the car and yanked the bolt back twice and released. Pettigrew got comfortable in his driver's seat, clutching his M-16 close to his chest.

It seemed OK, all quiet and peaceful, and yet, something wasn't right. It was _too_ quiet, _too_ peaceful. Arnold didn't like it. Experience had taught him out in the Gulf and here in Raccoon City that peace and quiet was a mixed curse. It could bring sweet salvation. At the same time, it could also bring a new ambush, a deadlier one than the one they had just escaped. Somewhere in this city was a sleeping enemy, ready to be awakened.

The peace had to end sometime.

And eventually, it would.

-----

Somehow, someway, the last section of a graveyard was always the hardest place to clear. It was like that with everything a group of soldiers had to clear out, but here, where they were, in the situation they were in, it was even worse. Waters glanced at Slowenski sitting behind him.

"Alright," he whispered to his machine-gunner, "You and Mabrey head up to that row up ahead. Then you cover me and Owens while we make our move up. You good?"

"Roger," was the calm, mellow reply.

Waters stared at the machine-gunner, amazed at how relaxed his friend was.

"How are you not afraid?" he found himself asking. "We're in the middle of some sort of outbreak, and we could be killed at any second. Don't you ever worry about that?"

Slowenski just smiled.

"What good would it do?" he asked simply. "Worrying about things never gets anything done. And that's what we're all about, right? Getting what won't be done done?"

Now Waters felt a big grin stretch across his face. This guy really was something.

"Alright," he snapped his hand forward, "get going."

Slowenski turned and nodded towards Mabrey. The two slung their bags off their shoulders, gripped their weapons, and proceeded, with Mabrey up front and Slowenski in the rear. They moved slowly, taking their time. They were in no hurry to get themselves possibly killed; they would be careful with it. Waters and Owens hid themselves behind a pair of gravestones and waited for a sign from the other two that they could move up.

Night was coming upon them again. Incredible…seemed like just an hour ago, the sun had risen, and now it was going back down again. So much, yet so little, had happened in a day. They were still stuck here, no sign of the others, and being attacked left and right by mindless hordes of dead humans, and that was what remained the same since the change of the mission. How he wished this would change again. Hopefully, to something better.

_snap!_

Waters jerked out of his thoughts and brought his M-4 to his shoulder. He had just heard something- a twig, or a branch, snapping. It was to his left, closer to where Owens was, and close enough to be almost on top of them. It wasn't the other two; they were up ahead. Whoever it was, it was moving from their left to Slowenski and Mabrey's front at a quick, steady pace.

He peered through his binoculars. He could vaguely make out the other guys. Mabrey leaned in and whispered something to his partner. Slowenski nodded and, through sign language, motioned for him to slowly creep around and take cover behind the large gravestone while he proceeded forward in a slow, low crouch, his machine-gun hanging almost limply on its strap.

He lowered the binoculars. As usual, it was all quiet. God, how he hated it when it was all quiet. It usually meant someone was cooking something up. He looked at Owens, who still had his rifle fixated straight ahead. The sergeant realized that he was too exposed; the sniper was kneeling over, exposed from the waste up. Which was a rookie mistake, of course, but given the situation, it might be considered forgivable. He bent forward to tell him to sit down, relax-

_whooooosh! _BOOM!

Both soldiers threw themselves to the ground as the RPG whizzed through the fog and slammed into the ground in front of them. When it ended, Waters brushed the dirt and rubble off his uniform and lifted his ashen-covered face up over the gravestone.

What had been originally a quiet little scenario had now turned into a ferocious firefight that had lit up the entire sector of the graveyard. Following the rocket, a machine-gun opened up and raked the field with its bullets. Waters again ducked as geysers of dirt shot up from the ground and showered him and Owens.

He could hear the other two firing back. He risked peeking up again to see what was going on. He could make out Mabrey's CAR-15 and Slowenski's SAW peppering the air, trying to hit their invisible assailant. Whenever they stopped, however, the opposing machine-gun fired right back. It was a game of war-tag, the way they went back and forth.

Someone on their side shot a long stream of lead out into the night. Seconds later, another bullet-stream came back, and there was a small spurt of red and someone letting out a quick yelp of pain.

It was getting really dark now. Waters flipped on his PNVs and looked out. For the first time, he could make out the outline of whoever was shooting at them. He was shocked at first- what kind of person was seven feet tall? - but it left him instantly when a low, hair-raising growl cried over the noise of the gunfire:

"_Staaars_…"

-----

"_In my sights. Firing away."_

_-----_

BAM!

It all started with a bullet. One small, insignificant bullet. One bullet that was fired from a sniper rifle hidden at a upper-floor window and shot down and entered Lake's left shoulder and then passed right out the back of it and slammed into the pavement and stopped. But it was enough to make Lake cry out in pain and topple backwards off the turret and into the Humvee and out of sight.

Atkins, who had been bored enough to begin cleaning his fingernails, had picked his head up the instant he heard the shot and was staring in Lake's direction just as his friend sank out of view. Piecing two and two together, he grabbed his M-60.

"Contact! Shots fired!"

And after that, everything went to Hell.

With that one sniper, the rest of the U.B.C.S soldiers that had been lying in wait to attack them did just that. they opened up with everything they had- M-4s, SAWs, Benelli shotguns, Dragnov sniper rifles, PK machine guns, and other assorted weapons. The four D-boys were facing roughly thirty or forty to one odds, with no hope of relief in sight. The worst odds in a terrible situation.

Arnold tumbled out of the Jeep's seats and fell behind the vehicle as Atkins fired his 60 into the window where he believed the sniper had been. From where they were, however, there was no way to tell for sure if he was actually hitting anybody. The sergeant handled his M-4, jerking back the bolt, and pointed it towards the building the enemy was taking cover in.

His scope trained on a rifleman, firing his own M-4 at Atkins' machine-gun. Aiming hard, he fired one, two, three shots up. The third shot did the trick, striking the man in the head and tearing off his left ear.

Pettigrew barreled out of his Humvee and joined alongside Arnold and Atkins at firing at the enemy.

"WHERE THE _FUCK_ DID THEY COME FROM?!" he screamed.

"Just keep shooting!" Arnold screamed as he reloaded his M-4 and resumed firing.

Atkins' machine-gun jammed. He pulled the bolt back twice, in an attempt to un-jam it, when suddenly, he caught movement up in front of them. Three of the enemy, armed with a shotgun, M-4, and pistol apiece, trying to flank them. And, so far, not getting noticed by the other two D-Boys.

He raised his M-60 to meet them and pulled the trigger. "_click!" _Nothing. It was still jammed.

"Shit-"

They noticed him then. The one with the shotgun fired three shells, while another soldier fired several pistol rounds at him. Atkins stayed concealed, bracing himself as the bullets impacted on the Humvee. When they stopped, he figured it his chance.

He turned around and fired. His bulled slammed into the pistol-wielding soldier's chest, knocking him backwards onto the ground. The soldier with the M-4, seeing his comrade down, fired a quarter of a clip at the vehicle. Atkins stayed behind cover again, then whipped around and plugged the second soldier in his right side.

The shotgun soldier, seeing his men were down, began retreating back to his side of the street. By that time, however, Atkins had gotten his M-60 un-jammed, and started firing it in his direction. The first bullet hit his shoulder. The second one caught him in the leg. And as he limped towards safety, three more jack-knifed into his back, sending him spiraling once, twice, then landing and rolling onto the ground.

The enemy was taking to the streets now. Every now and again, when the machine-gunner in the windows was laying down enough suppressing fire, soldiers in groups of three and four would stalk towards them with their weapons firing. The three D-Boys fired their own suppressing fire, which time and again managed to repel the assailants. But their ammo was starting to run thin, and the enemy wasn't letting up.

Arnold fired. His bullet dropped an enemy fifty feet away. He fired again. Another enemy, directly behind the first one, fell as well. He fired again and again, sometimes stopping them for good, sometimes just wounding them. But the more he shot, the more kept coming, it seemed. It made his blood boil. Who _were_ these guys? What right did they have for shooting them, in a situation like this? It all made no sense. What had they ever done to _them_?

BAM!

A bullet exploded through the hull of the Jeep right next to his head. He looked at the mark for a few moments, amazed and relieved that it hadn't been him. But he snapped out of it. It was that sniper that had fired it, he was sure of it. The sniper that had started the whole attack. Atkins must've missed him earlier.

"ZACK!" he shouted over to Pettigrew, "Get a forty millimeter in that window! We need to take that sniper out!"

Pettigrew looked up at the window where the sniper was. He nodded.

Grabbing his M-16 and holding it so that he was working the M-203 grenade launched underneath the barrel, he aimed it towards the building. He slid the breach back, then reached into his back belt and pulled out a 40mm grenade round. Jamming it into the breach, he then slid it back and aimed it up to a position where he believed the arch would send it far enough to impact the target.

When he was sure of the distance, he pulled the trigger.

The grenade sailed up and over, then landed in a window and exploded. Screams and cries of pain erupted, and one soldier came flying out of the inferno. It was then that Pettigrew realized his mistake; he had hit the window below, just missing the location of the sniper. He had to get at a better angle.

Re-opening the breach of the grenade launcher and ejecting the smoking grenade shell, he moved towards his third Humvee and climbed up onto the hood. Once on top of it, he took another grenade out of his belt. Slamming it into the breach, he aimed it up again, this time making sure his measurements were correct. Bullets pinged and ricocheted around him. He wasn't perplexed as to why; he was completely exposed right then. But he'd worry about that afterwards.

Taking direct aim, he again pulled the trigger.

This time, it was dead on.

The grenade landed right into the window where the sniper was. There was another loud explosion, and the sniper went flying out the window and landed on the ground three floors down and didn't move.

_ping! snap!_

Bullets peppered around the top of the Humvee. Now he was taking a notice to them. He looked around quickly, and then dove down into the .50 turret and into the Humvee cab.

Poking his M-16 out the window, he began popping off his random shots. One, two, three at a time. Then he switched to his three-round burst mode and opened up on the soldiers that were taking to the streets. It wasted more ammo than single-shot did, but it definitely put a man down. When his clip expired, Pettigrew switched to his M-9 and fired to as many as he could hit at a close enough range.

Arnold reached in and grabbed one of his few remaining clips when he caught movement to his left. He took a peak-

-And saw a soldier with a large tube on his shoulder, moving along a rooftop. Too far away to hit from where he was. Arnold had sinking feeling of what it was. And possibly what it was for.

"Zack," he called out, "We got a guy with an RPG on the rooftops. Stay alert."

Pettigrew was too busy firing to pay too much attention to his sergeant's orders. He reloaded his M-16 and continued taking potshots at the incoming soldiers. He was so involved in his work that he failed to see the RPG gunner, sticking out and aiming the tube straight down at the cab of the Humvee. Prepared to fire and send the man into another world.

Arnold, however, did see.

"ZACK! MOVE!"

This time, Pettigrew heard it. His eyes scanned, looking for the threat, but not seeing him until finally, he looked towards the roof and saw the RPG staring him right in the face. Even with all of his experience, all of his common knowledge, and all of his common sense, he didn't budge. He didn't raise his rifle to shoot him down. He froze, his eyes fixated on the enemy.

"Aw, shit…"

There was nothing they could do. Every single man at that intersection knew what was about to happen. Heard the trigger being pulled in their minds.

There was a "pop!" and a _whooooosh! _and the rocket left the tube and zoomed down and slammed into the Humvee, flipping it over at least twice in the air and then landing on its back, completely aflame and totally destroyed.

-----

Waters tensed up as the bullets continued to pepper the gravestone he was hiding behind. That thing fired away, never ceasing, never needing to stop for a reload.

The situation hadn't changed. He and Owens were still pinned down away from where Mabrey and Slowenski were, separated by a couple rows of headstones and about 7000 bullets fired per minute. They needed to get up there, they needed to take out the gun, they needed to meet up with Delta Three…there were about a million things they needed to do, and no easy way to do them.

He peered back over. Mabrey was firing his CAR-15, just a few shots here and there. Beside Waters, Owens was firing as well, more concentrated ones. But it was as though the guy was made out of metal; the bullets hit him, true, and blood still spurted out, but there was no inclination of the bullets actually bringing pain to his being.

"Owens!" he called. "We gotta get outta here! On my mark, you cover me while I try to move in close enough to lob a frag! Ready?"

Owens nodded and reloaded his M-21 with a fresh magazine. Waters rechecked his own M-4 clip-full up- and then got on his stomach. He had to stay low, because if that gun got a bead on him, he was as good as dead. Being low, he had a chance to elude getting riddled. He looked back at his teammate.

"Alright…GO!"

Owens got up and, taking careful aim, fired several shots at the monster. Waters rolled out from behind the grave and crawled as fast as he could to his cover. He crawled on his stomach, like he was supposed to- not like how a baby crawled. The lower to the ground you got, the longer chance you had to live in a war zone.

Bullets flew directly over his head. They were all green, so it was hard to tell if they were actually lead bullets or green tracers. Waters peered up for just a brief moment and was amazed at the fireworks display going off over his head. He now had an idea how the soldiers during the first and second World Wars felt when they were crawling under fire at nights. It was the most breathtaking and terrifying scene he had ever witnessed.

He kept crawling. He was close enough to hear the monster roaring clearly. He still couldn't see the other two D-Boys on his team, but he knew where they were. The monster was directly in front of him, maybe fifty or sixty feet up. Close enough to plug him.

He grabbed one of his M-67 fragmentation grenades and grasped it firmly in his hand. Removing the safety clip, he slid his finger into the pin and said a quick Hail Mary. The entire time, he held the spring lever down so he wouldn't accidentally kill himself. After the prayer was done, he waited for the firing to stop.

To his surprise, it actually did. For the first time, its Gatling Gun ceased firing. _Now_-

What happened next was in slow-motion. Waters jumped up and found him almost face-to-face with the monster, separated by only a couple rows of gravestones. It might as well have been right up against each other. He could see the creature's rage-filled eyes, almost smell his putrid breath. For the third time during this whole nightmare, he was face to face with the vilest creature on the face of the Earth, and this time, this encounter may very well be for keeps.

Before the thing could thumb the trigger again, the sergeant flung his arm forward and released the grenade. The small ball-shaped explosive flew out. The spring lever flew back up and the grenade landed at the monster's feet just as the trigger to the Gatling Gun was pressed.

As he whirled to sit back down, there was a _whap!_ and a very loud CRACK! and a sharp, stinging pain. He let out a short, agonizing cry of pain. His breathing tensed up and grew ragged, as he lifted the back of his uniform to inspect his theory. He lowered back down quicker than he had lifted it, upon seeing the blood caked upon his fatigues and the still more flowing down his back. He could also see the piece of shattered bone sticking out through the vest. There was no use denying the fact.

_Son of a bitch _shot_ me!_

BOOM!

The grenade went off then, showering debris over the poor sergeant. The monster roared, whether from pain of from surprise or from anger, no one could tell for sure. It let out one final burst from its machine-gun, and then, it was silent.

Waters tried to regain his breathing, however ragged it was from the running and his newly gained wound. There was no more shooting, which made things so much easier. Maybe now they could finish up and fall back to the convoy.

"SHIT! SARGE! OWENS! SOMEBODY GET UP HERE WITH THE MEDICAL GEAR! _STAT_!"

The sergeant froze. That was Mabrey. Requesting the medical gear.

"Shit…"

Forgetting about his own pain, he sprung up and sprinted over to where Mabrey's voice had come from. There was still a lot of smoke, courtesy of all the shooting from both sides. But through it, he could see two figures- three, counting the one lying on the ground-, moving quickly, fumbling around. He burst through the smoke and looked downward-

Owens was taking a knee, covering them with his rifle, trying not to look at the scene unfolding. And Mabrey was unfolding his medical gear while trying to tend to Slowenski, who was lying on the ground, his hands over his stomach which had a pool of blood forming. The machine-gunner was having trouble breathing, and he jerked a little.

Waters dropped his M-4 and kneeled at his side and grabbed his friend's hand to squeeze it in his own. Slowenski's eyes fluttered open and, upon seeing his team leader, managed a weak little smile.

"Hey, Sarge…hell of a fight, huh? Heh…"

Even inches from death, Waters had never known a man to be more calm that Slowenski. Mabrey dug into his kit and rolled out some bandages.

"Hang on, Ski. You're gonna be alright," he told the big man. Then, to Waters, he explained, "Bullet to the gut. Happened right at the beginning of the fight. It all happened so fast, I didn't-"

"Relax, Doc. Just patch him up," ordered Waters.

"Alright, Ski? I need you to move your hands for me, buddy. I gotta check out the wound," Mabrey ordered.

"Doc, really…it ain't that bad-"

"Let me be the judge of that. Hands."

Slowenski grunted and obeyed. Owens took that point in time to look over as he did, and when he saw it, he immediately looked away.

"Oh, dear God…" he said.

Waters looked at the wound and used what remained of his willpower to keep him from losing his control. The bullet had hit him so fast and so hard, it had gone completely through Slowenski's gut. Those very same organs were proceeded to slide out the exit wound into a piled heap underneath the big man. Mabrey looked up at Slowenski.

"I'm not gonna lie, buddy- it IS that bad," he said. "But you just hang in there. I'm gonna do my best."

He looked up at Waters, silently shaking his head. Waters looked back down. The color was completely drained from Slowenski's face, and his breathing was starting to pick itself up. No matter how hard he tried to control it, he just couldn't. Yet, despite all that, he never complained, never lost his cool. He just sat it out.

The sergeant looked at him painfully. There was no way they could get him out of this in a good way. The wound was just too deep; the man had lost too much blood. They didn't have the proper supplies to fully care for him. He hated to admit this, but Slowenski knew, and Mabrey knew. And now, he knew too.

They kept telling him to hang on, but he had let go the minute that bullet had hit him.

He reached over to Mabrey's bag. They couldn't let him suffer like this. He took out the morphine and began prepping it. Slowenski saw it and smiled a little.

"Yeah…morphine," he said. "Better…make it a double-shot…huh, Sarge?"

Owens turned back again at this, looking at his sergeant in disbelief. Waters paid him no mind. He nodded to his dying comrade.

"Ok. Sure, buddy."

Mabrey just stared at this, accepting that there was no other choice but still not fully accepting killing their friend. Owens looked away again. He couldn't watch this.

Waters slipped the first dose out of its pack, tore the cover off, and shot the drug into Slowenski's leg. The machine-gunner grunted, but soon let out a big sigh. The Delta Two sergeant paused for a couple seconds, then did the same steps with the second pack and shot that into his leg, above the first injection. This time, Slowenski didn't make any noise. He just stared off into space, this happy look on his face.

Mabrey then began tying on a Compress bandage tight around his stomach and lower back, to keep any more innards from vacating the premises. Owens still refused to look, but Waters could hear him sniffing and knew his emotions were getting the best of him. They were doing it to all of them. He shook it off and turned back to his dying friend.

"How ya feeling, buddy?" he asked.

Slowenski grinned a drugged-up grin.

"Mellow, man," he said. "We got ourselves a nice, mellow night tonight."

"That's good," said Waters. "That's real good. You just relax, man. It's all gonna be over soon."

"Hey, don't sweat, man. Worrying about things never gets anything done. Right?"

"…Yeah, man. That's right."

Slowenski looked up towards the sky again. Waters admired him so much; never was there a moment where he was worked up or freaking out. He lay there like a man before death, accepting what was to come and ready to go to his Lord.

"Boss?"

Waters came out of his thoughts. Slowenski was starting to shake a bit; his breathing grew more violent. The sergeant squeezed his hand tighter.

"What is it, Ski? What do you need?" he asked urgently.

"Now…" Slowenski choked out, and the other two soldiers started panicking- was this it? - but then he kept talking. "Now…as I lay me down to sleep…I pray the Lord…my soul, shall keep…"

Right then, Waters knew. His friend had once told him that, before he closed his eyes for the night, he always said that prayer. He said it was one his grandfather always used to say to him, when he was a little kid. Now he was saying it for the last time he would close his eyes on Earth. He joined his friend in the last two lines:

"_And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my soul, shall take."_

The dying soldier turned his head to his sergeant, his eyes glistening.

"You're gonna get 'em out, right?" he asked. "You're gonna find the others…and get 'em outta here, right? Get them all out?"

"I got it, Ski," Waters told him. "I'll get them out. I promise."

Slowenski smiled and looked up at the sky again.

It happened so fast. He was so quiet and calm through it all; they didn't even know his breathing had stopped until a minute or so after the fact. Waters had been staring at him the entire time, and it just dawned on him long after he had made the promise that his friend had stopped any form of movement. Mabrey checked his pulse, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then looked at the sergeant and confirmed it.

Slowenski had believed so strongly in God. Now he had gone to see if he was right.

The medic placed his hand over the dead man's eyes and closed them. He then made the Sign of the Cross over his deceased comrade's chest.

"Lord, into Thy hands, I send your servant's soul," he said in a very low voice. "May he find eternal peace amongst the paradise You have prepared for him. Amen."

Waters looked up towards the Heavens. He had always had some belief that God had been out there, and that he had a paradise for all of them. But now, he truly had to believe it. For Slowenski's sake.

"Keep him safe for us," he said, to no one in particular. "Tell him we'll never forget him."

"Sarge."

The Delta Two sergeant turned back to the medic. Mabrey nodded towards his arm.

"Want me to take a look at that?" he asked.

Waters then remembered the searing wound on his shoulder. The blood still trickled down, and the broken bone cracked whenever he moved his arm too roughly. But he just shrugged it off.

"I'll be alright," he told Mabrey. "Dress it when we get back to the Humvees."

The medic nodded, and again looked at Slowenski's body.

"What do you want to do with his body?" he questioned.

"We're taking him with us." Waters then looked over at the third member of their now three-man team. "Owens, you're on the SAW now. Grab it, and any ammo off of Ski before we get moving-"

"Wait, listen."

Owens held up his hand. The other two stopped moving and listened as well.

Faint at first, then becoming increasingly noticeable, the remaining Delta Two soldiers could hear the sound of an intense battle raging from somewhere close beyond the graveyard. The sounds of gunfire, explosions, and someone screaming like a stuck pig were sounds Waters had not heard since the LZ battle the previous night. Owens turned to the others with a serious look on his face.

"Sounds like we're not the only ones having a bad night…"

-----

Back at the ambush spot, the enemy forces were still raining down lead on Delta Three's position. But Arnold paid it no mind. His only concern was for the team member that, at that moment, was laying in an overturned, aflame Humvee.

"ZACK!!!" Arnold screamed the moment he saw the Humvee flip over after the RPG round hit it.

Atkins fired his machine-gun at the spot where the gunner had been. He wasn't sure if he had hit him or not, but no more rockets came from that position, so he could hopefully assume that he had. He twirled around and ran over to the wreckage.

Arnold was using the butt of his M-4 to try and smash the door of the Humvee in order to pull Pettigrew out. He turned to his machine-gunner, who was firing short, controlled bursts at the crowd.

"Atkins, grab the fire blanket out of the Jeep and bring it over here," he ordered.

_click_! Right then, Atkins had extended the rest of his last remaining M-60 ammo. He looked at the machine-gun, then up at the crowd he still had to deal with. Without a word, he went off to the Jeep, firing his 9mm as his only alternative.

Arnold quickly bolted to the second Humvee and grabbed the fire extinguisher. He returned to the wreckage and began shooting the contents onto the fire. He had to put it out. He had to get Pettigrew out of there. He wasn't leaving him to die like this. There was no way he was letting him die like this. The son of a bitch was too tough to let that happen to him. And Pettigrew was too good a friend to let go of like that.

Atkins returned with the fire blanket just as his sergeant began putting out the last of the fire. At the same time, behind them, there came a loud BANG! and Lake tumbled out backwards from the rear Humvee, one hand clutching the barrel of his CAR-15, and the other clamped over his wounded shoulder. He got himself up and sat against his Humvee, catching his breath.

"Lake! You alright?" Arnold called over to him.

The sniper waved his arm tiredly.

"I just got the wind knocked out of me by a 7.62 round," he stated somewhat sarcastically, talking more to himself than the others. "Nothing to worry about."

"Atkins, take him over to your Humvee and check him out," ordered Arnold. "Patch him up as best you can, let Mabrey handle the rest when he gets here."

Atkins nodded. He went over, lifted his partner up with a grunt and moved him as fast as he could towards the forward Humvees. Once there, he checked it out. The bullet had passed in and out of Lake's left shoulder, leaving a small little hole that left no lasting damage. There was very little blood. Atkins tied a quick Compress over both of Lake's holes and slapped his buddy on the back.

"You're good to go. Lock and load."

Meanwhile, with the fire gone, Arnold had finally managed to pull a screaming, badly wounded Pettigrew out of the smoking wreckage. He placed the fire blanket over his chest to rid of any more smoke or flames, and stared helplessly down at his friend.

The rocket had hit the back of the Humvee, but Pettigrew had still received the blunt of the impact. Shrapnel had all but decimated his chest, leaving bits of metal and steel sticking out of his chest. His uniform was torn, both from the explosion of the RPG and from the fire caused by it. His Kevlar vest virtually ceased to exist. His face was covered in blood and burn marks, but he didn't take time to notice it, for he was too busy screaming in complete agony. Arnold had seen some bad wounds before, and this was one of them. What he needed was a medic. Scratch that, he needed three surgeons and an anesthesiologist and plenty of operating gear in an O.R. And even _that_ might not save him. He was millimeters away from death as it was.

BAM! BAM!

Two more enemy soldiers had taken to the streets and were firing at him and Pettigrew. Arnold lifted his M-4 and fired. The bullet grazed one in the shoulder, sending him spinning and falling, but not dead. His friend came to help him, while the sergeant trained his rifle on him.

_click!_

His eye opened. Empty. The other soldier heard the click, saw the raised gun, and brought his own up.

BAM!

Atkins rushed by, firing his handgun. The bullet hit the assailant's hand, sending the rifle flying out and clattering to the street. Atkins fired two more times, striking him in the chest. The man crumpled, expired.

The machine-gunner went past his sergeant and dying corporal and fired at more of the enemy mercenaries. He pumped another round into the head of the man Arnold had wounded before. He then ejected the spent clip and stuffed a new one in when something on the man's person caught his eye. He looked down at the person laying face-down and saw the giant umbrella imprinted on the back of a green jacket.

His face went pale. _No_, he thought to himself. _It can't be-_

BAM!

He jerked out of his trance. Another soldier had come, firing a handgun of his own. They aimed their weapons at each other and fired at the same time.

Both soldiers dropped, though only one howled in pain.

Atkins' bullet had hit him square in the head, leaving a neat little hole in the center of his forehead that one could see clear to the other side for a brief moment before blood clogged the entries and poured out. In return, the man's bullet hit Atkins by going through his left side, in and out, also leaving a nice little hole with the same attributes as the other one had. The foe fell backwards and lay still; the D-Boy fell backwards and couldn't stop moving. He writhed in pain and cursed whole-heartedly.

During this whole exchange, Arnold had been desperately searching for a new clip for his rifle. All he found out, to his horror, was that the one he had just emptied was his last one. Still, he searched, hoping against hope that he had missed a location for some extra ammo. But when Atkins was shot, he finally gave up. He threw his M-4 down and took out his .45 and fired with that. it was only a small handgun with a seven-round clip, but it would have to do.

On his back, Atkins somehow managed to scootch himself back over on his back. Bit by, bit, he crab-crawled himself back to the Humvees, with Arnold covering him as best he could with his .45. When he was close enough, Lake pulled him back in- not an easy feat, as he only had one fully-functioning arm to work with- and propped him up against the second Humvee. His partner continued to curse.

"God, this hurts like a son-of-a-bitch!" he cried out.

"Put pressure on the wound," Arnold told him and Lake. "Make sure you bandage it properly. If you still can, provide some supporting fire while I try to-AH!"

It happened quick. A rifleman's bullet hit the hood of the fourth Humvee, skidded off, and passed through the piece of skin that connected Arnold's neck with his right shoulder. His hand leapt to the wound as blood spurted out and fell against the wrecked Humvee, twitching and writhing.

"FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF_UCK_! FUCK FUCK _FUCK_!!!" he hollered, kicking the ground in pain and frustration. Almost ten years with the force and he had to pick _this_ shit mission to get shot! Of all the rotten luck.

"Sarge! You OK?" called Lake.

Arnold refused to take his hand off his wound. It was a thing with him. The sight of blood coming from the soldiers he had shot, the sight of Pettigrew lying mangled on the ground- that didn't affect him that much. But when he saw his own blood oozing from him, pouring out of him like water from a gutter in a rainstorm…that scared him to know end. It ended his feeling of being invincible, and made him vulnerable. Weak.

Which was not what they needed right now.

He looked around. Everyone on his team had been hit. Pettigrew was the worst out of all of them. The Humvees were all shot up, one of them blown all to Hell. And despite all they had done, they enemy were still pouring it on them, not ceasing. For the first time, he actually believed he was going to die. It was a weird feeling- he just knew this was it. It neither frightened nor comforted him. It was just there. After all these years of fighting, this was where his tale would end.

"Friendlies! Friendlies!"

And then Delta Two finally arrived, probably in just as worse shape as they were in. Waters was bleeding from a really nasty wound from his shoulder, but other than that was fine. Arnold's face cracked into a weary smile, which fled when he saw Owens and Mabrey dragging Slowenski's body as carefully as they could towards the column.

"Put him in the second Humvee," Waters ordered, before turning to Arnold. The Delta Three sergeant nodded towards the others' men.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Rather not talk about it," Waters answered, and then nodded to his wound. "What happened here?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," replied Arnold with a sarcastic grin.

"It's Umbrella."

Atkins groaned this from where he was sitting, grunting in pain as Mabrey cleaned out his wound. He looked at the two sergeants.

"Those guys…they're those Umbrella mercs from the LZ. I saw the patch on their uniforms," he told them. Arnold moaned in pain and frustration.

"Of all the low down…aren't they supposed to be on _our_ side?" he demanded.

"Somehow, I don't think they care anymore," answered Waters.

BOOM!

Both men ducked as the fourth Humvee, the one Lake had been in when he had been shot, blew up. A grenade had landed in the cab and exploded. The detonation disabled the vehicle completely, grounding it to its spot. Arnold groaned.

"Bill, we gotta get out of here," he said.

"Yeah, I know," Waters replied, concentrating some fire on the enemy in the windows. "Let's hop into the Humvees and roll our way out. We still gotta find the others-"

"No, I mean, WE have to get out of here. As in, we have to get our teams out of this city."

The Delta Two sergeant's head whipped back towards the Delta Three one.

"_What_?!"

Arnold shifted uncomfortable, as Mabrey turned his attention to him while also prepping an IV for Pettigrew.

"Pettigrew's fucked up real bad. I don't get him to a doctor- a REAL doctor, no offense, Mabrey-, he's not gonna make it. I gotta get him back to base so the docs can patch him up."

"Wait, what about the others? Bradley and Horan and Sandy? We can't just leave them in here, Sam, they'll _die_!"

"Bill, LOOK at us!" Arnold waved around to the wrecked vehicles, the shot-up crew. "What use are we gonna be? I'm down to two running vehicles, and everyone on the team's fucking _shot_! By the time we find the others, we'll have nothing left to call a convoy! Face it; we'll be more harm than good to them. And who the fuck even knows if they're still _alive_?"

"Sam," Waters grabbed his friend's collar and pulled him closer to him so that they were eye to eye. "I promised Ski, right before he died, that I would find the others. And that I would bring them home. And I plan on keeping that promise, no-matter-_what. _You do what you have to do, but I'm staying. And I'm going to find them. And I am going to get them home. All of them."

Arnold found himself amazed at the other sergeant's determination. A few days ago, he had been the green, nervous leader of the new Delta Two team. Now he was this expert killer, bravely taking his remaining soldiers into territory his own seasoned team could not go into. In the last twenty-four hours or so, Waters had been baptized by fire, and now he was a true soldier. And he was going to step in for the old-timers. To get the others home.

He finally nodded.

"OK," he said. "You're on your own. I'm gonna take my guys and get us back to base to get patched up. Now look, I can't promise we'll be able to get back out. You're gonna have to make your own way out. Just try to be back at HQ within a 24-hour time limit. Otherwise, it's probably gonna be too late."

"Alright. Sounds good."

Waters stood and reached down. Arnold grabbed his hand and was hoisted up onto his feet. The two tightly gripped each other's hand, not letting go, not losing eye contact. This was good-bye for now, but not forever. They would all make it out. They had to believe that they would. Alive, they would all be coming home.

"Good luck, Bill," said Arnold. "See you back at base."

"You too, Sam," replied Waters. "See you in twenty-four hours."

Then they turned to their men.

"Atkins! Lake!" Arnold called. "Grab Pettigrew and get him in the Humvee. We're going home, boys!"

"Mabrey! Owens!" Waters ordered. "Weapons and ammo, on me. Grab any other supplies you can, and let's move 'em out!"

And so, it was with this that Delta Two and Delta Three, the only two teams to have so far been in contact with each other, went their separate ways. Waters ran as fast as he could around the corner and down another side-street to avoid the crossfire, while Arnold's convoy, now down to the Jeep and the second Humvee, roared out, Lake hammering away one-handedly on the .50 cal while Atkins followed Arnold out of the battle and out of the city.

And out of any chance of being any help to the other teams.

The others were now truly, totally, on their own.

* * *

…Wow.

Not bad.

As you can see, this chapter took time because of length (at 20 pages and over 8,000 words, this is my longest A.S.A.N chapter to date) and volume (this is the longest scripted fight I think I have ever written, beating out the previous two major fights by a long shot).

Jamie Gartland, I will write the next chapter, and I'll work out the whole deal with you after I do.

I pray you enjoy this fight, and I also pray you review it when you finish it.

Peace out for now.


	15. Meeting

Chapter Fifteen is up, and has secured four reviews, which is better than none, so I shall not complain.

Chibi-Chipmunk on Crack- Thank you. I'm hoping it's not bad.

duhduhdurr- Obviously, you can't have a Resident Evil story and _not_ have people die. There will be more characters killed off. I don't know how many more, but more.

Asano- I think it's going good.

_Resident Evil: Extinction_- best fucking movie in the goddam world.

And we go.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: Meeting

"Sir," said Lt. Riley, striding into the conference room, "Mackenzie just arrived on the compound."

"All right, send him in," Captain Sullivan replied, rubbing his weary eyes.

For the first time in over a day, they were about to get a break. A _real_ break. No more phone calls or miscommunications. Now, Captain Mackenzie himself was coming to the compound to personally speak with the Delta commanders.

Sullivan stifled a yawn. He knew it was terrible, showing signs of sleep when his men were in the biggest fight of their lives, but after over a day of sitting in the command room with little to no breaks, drowsiness was beginning to take over, so much so that he was becoming fast friends with the coffee machine in the conference room.

But here was something else. After that "enlightening" phone conversation that had led to both the discovery of Delta Five's condition and the new "war" developing between the two units, he now wanted to get to the bottom of it. He wanted to know why Sanderson and his men had ambushed that convoy and why Umbrella had suddenly decided they were deemed "the enemy" when they're enemy seemed to be the carnivorous civilians in the city.

After what seemed like an eternity, the doors were opened- somewhat forcefully, Sullivan noticed- and Captain Mackenzie barged through, looking both impatient and angry. One look at the man was all it took for Sullivan to see that this man had, in recent years, seen some hard, maybe even terrifying shit. But, then again, so had he. So it all worked out.

"Mac" sat opposite of the two Delta officers, arms crossed, eyes not moving off the two men. Any other green captain may be intimidated by the man, but not Sullivan. He no longer knew intimidation.

"Captain," he greeted, quite professionally. "I know the situation isn't exactly ideal, but I'm glad that you're here. I'm sure we have a lot to talk about."

"Yeah, we do," said Mackenzie, not sharing any of the others' hospitality. "Like, for starters, why your men have been ambushing mine."

So this wouldn't be easy after all. Mackenzie was sidestepping the hospitalities, and diving straight into the main topic. Sullivan and Riley exchanged knowing glances. This was going to be a bit of a nuisance.

"We have confirmed our men were behind the ambush," Sullivan responded, turning back to Mackenzie. "But as to why, we just don't know. It's all a very confusing mess on our end as well."

"So much for perfect coordination between you and your men," said the Umbrella officer. "Isn't that what you and your boys are supposed to be all about?"

There was a brief pause, before Sullivan finally stood up.

"Look, Captain, I understand how you must be feeling-"

"No, you don't." Mackenzie was going on the offensive now; he was starting to get really angry, really fast. "You don't have a damned clue how I'm feeling. I've got over two hundred men trapped in a city full of cannibals, I have no radio contact with any of them, and my officers- my BEST officers- may be in danger from an outside interference. And now, your men, who are supposed to be supporting us, is now blowing up our vehicles and killing our men! What the FUCK are you boys doing down there, Sully?"

Riley whistled and looked up at the ceiling, pretending to be fascinated by it rather than watch what would obviously a rather large explosion. Sullivan just glared at Mackenzie, suddenly very angry. He crossed over in front of the table and stared the other man square in the eye.

"Perhaps I wasn't entirely clear," he said, trying very hard to conceal the fury that he felt, "But this has not been an easy time for our side of the war either. Half of my men are dead. I have roughly twenty men left, also trapped in a city of human-eating hostiles, and I only have a vague idea of where less than half of them are. The Delta team in question is the survivors of one of our Little Birds going down to RPG fire early on in the fight. There is no radio communication between ground forces or air, and the last thing we need is more fire from the Umbrella Corporation. You need to understand that we are doing _everything that we can_ to try and bring our boys home."

And then it was a sparring match. Not physically, but the way the two went back and forth, Riley's head had to jump from one to the other, as though he were watching tennis. Both leaders were arguing, though not shouting just yet, but close to it.

"What about you?" Mackenzie demanded, becoming red in the face. "What about you shooting down one of our birds? What do you call that one?"

"That, Captain, is what happens when your pilots don't identify themselves clearly," Sullivan answered. "He had no authorization to be there, and for all we know, he could've been bringing in dangerous weapons. You would've done the same. You probably did."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"They only two units in this city to bring rockets with them were your men and mine. And Four Five didn't go down to our fire."

"So it's our fault, then?"

"I'm just pointing out facts. Our men weren't concerned with shooting our birds down. And judging from the video feed, it didn't go down to technical difficulties. That's two of three options covered."

"Terrific. So now I'm betting you're gonna say we're the reason one of my convoys have been shot all to hell, then?"

"Again, let's look at the statistics. My men know enough not to shoot unless fired at. Sanderson and his boys are, for the most part, all Desert Storm veterans. Do the math."

"So you're saying it's our fault."

"No, what I'm saying is that, unless they had been fired upon, they would not be firing on you."

"What do you think this is?!" Mac suddenly screamed, his anger peaking over the top, and Sullivan took a few steps back, surprised at the velocity of it. "You think this is a game? The little boys at school, and their teachers telling them that, if you don't hit them, they won't hit you? This is a war zone, not a bloody playground! Men with weapons, not boys with sticks! You need to get your men under control, before this gets too out of control!"

BAM!

The door flew open, and all three officers turned to find a disheveled Sonar, looking wide-eyed and terrified out of his wits.

"Sir!" he exclaimed.

"Now what?" Sullivan demanded impatiently.

"Convoy's been ambushed! They're pulling out of the city!"

"_What_?!" Riley stood up, alarmed.

"How long ago?" their C.O. demanded.

"We just got word now, but about ten, fifteen minutes ago."

"Alright, get me visuals of the site."

"Yes sir," and the young corporal was off again.

Moments later, he had returned with the pictures. Sullivan and Riley started looking over them, with Mackenzie peering over their shoulder. It showed things that the Delta commanders really hadn't counted on or hoped on seeing; their convoy, they're one fool-proof escape force, was being pounded mercilessly by soldiers in the adjacent buildings and in the streets. And, judging by the umbrella stitched on the backs of their uniforms, they could tell just whose forces they were. Sullivan threw a glare over at the Umbrella captain, who didn't reply. He was studying the detail of the pictures, the soldiers in them.

"What the hell happened?" asked Riley.

"Reports say it was a surprise attack. Deltas Two and Three held them off as long as they could, but it's a mess. Only two of the vehicles made it out, and one's gonna need heavy maintenance when it gets back."

"What about casualties?" This question was asked by Sullivan.

"We're looking at one dead, five wounded."

"How bad are they?"

"Doc patched them up as best he could," Sonar shook his head, "but Pettigrew's banged up real bad, Captain. It's not looking good."

Sullivan and Riley looked at each other. They were going to have to get medics on sight the minute the convoy got back. But that wasn't Sullivan's only main worry…

"Who is it?" he asked solemnly. "The KIA."

Sonar hesitated, and then answered, "Slowenski, sir."

"Shit." Sullivan slammed his fist on the table, while Riley covered his face with his hand. This couldn't be happening. Such a thing should not have had to happen. Not to Slowenski, of all people. The man had been a hell of a fine human being.

"Reports have come back saying that Delta Two has chosen to remain in the city," Sonar went on to say. "Delta Three's coming back to re-arm and drop off their wounded, and then they want permission to go back out to search for the others."

"Denied," Sullivan answered firmly, turning back around. "When they get back to base, they are to stand down and await further orders."

"Wait a minute," Riley interjected. "Sir, we pull them out, the rest of the boys are gonna be trapped in there. Their survival depends on this convoy."

"And right now, it's coming back in pieces," the captain retorted. "Until we can figure out what the hell's going on out there, no one goes back out. That's an order."

"Yes sir." Sonar snapped a quick salute and was again out the door.

Silence overtook the remaining officers. Sullivan had gone back to the table and was looking at the pictures, but this time, he really wasn't paying too much attention to them. In his mind, all he could think about was Pettigrew, who was laying in the back of a Humvee, screaming his lungs out as shrapnel had pierced his body; of Slowenski, dead, gone to a place where none of this mess could hurt him; of the Delta Three team, bloody and beaten, returning to base; and of Delta Two, who was still stuck in there, up a creek without a paddle.

"Well, Captain," he said, talking to Mackenzie now and snapping the other man back to attention, "is this what you wanted? You wanted to get a little revenge on my guys for attacking your convoy? Well, you got it. Now I got another letter to send home."

Mac didn't answer. He was still studying in detail the contents of the photos, the soldiers in the buildings opposite the convoy. The uniforms- jackets and caps, with the umbrella stitched across the back and U.B.C.S written on the back. The soldiers were obviously Umbrella's. And yet…

"They're not mine," he said.

Both Delta operators' heads picked up and looked at him indignantly.

"Excuse me?" Sullivan asked.

"They're not mine," replied Mackenzie again.

"Bullshit. Unless there's another company that endorses a giant umbrella to their outfits-"

"Look," The Umbrella captain gathered them over and showed them the pictures again. "Heavy jackets, greenish color, with black caps. M-4 Assault Rifles, Benellis, Dragnovs-"

"The standard outfit, all in all, for umbrella soldiers."

"No, you don't understand!" Mackenzie was getting desperate now. "My unit was reassigned to a Blackwater division several months ago. We got a uniform change, weapon change; we even got a name change. We're a completely separate branch, not like these people. These are the real U.B.C.S unit."

There was a moment of silence.

"So…are you saying…that there are TWO Umbrella units?" asked Riley skeptically.

"Yes."

"If this is true, then…wait, so why are THEY attacking us?"

Here, Mackenzie had no ready answer. Sullivan thought it all over. So many things weren't adding up…how could all of this be happening? People that seemed dead were eating people…a convoy ambushed by one faction of a large army, incorporated by the largest company in the world…There were too many things going on.

It was too big for just them.

"Carl." Sullivan was now talking specifically to his X.O. "We're gonna need to send word out to the National Guard. Tell them to get their units out here to help us."

"Boss, they still don't even know we've gone in," Riley reminded him.

"I don't care. Something's going on out there and we don't have any idea what it is, but whatever it is, it's too big for our twenty boys to do alone. We'll need everything they have, tanks, Humvees, ACPs, all of it."

"Sir, before we have a less experienced division go out, don't you think we should have a little more information for them to go by?"

The captain had been thinking about that too. His own men had gone out there with no information or sources; it would be suicidal to send another one out now, a little under a day later. Fortunately, however, this time they had a source.

"Captain," he said, directed towards Mackenzie again though not looking at him, "if you wouldn't mind, there's something I think you can help us with."

The Umbrella captain looked taken aback, but after a moment of thought, he gave an unsure nod.

"Before we lost radio contact with ground forces, we received a report about an incident in an underground laboratory. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

Another stunned look. Another slow nod.

"Carl," Sullivan threw a notepad to Riley, who opened it and pulled out a pen, and then turned to look at Mackenzie.

"I think," he said, "it would be in both our interests if you told us what you know."

* * *

And there it is, folks. Took a hell of a lot longer than I anticipated it would, but here she is.

Now, I would send this to Jamie Gartland, so he could do the stuff he needs to do with his part…only I haven't heard from him in, like, months…and the other day when I went to his page, I found- to my horror and surprise- that To The Last Man Down V2 was taken down.

So, yeah. If you read this, dude, I hope everything is OK, and I hope I got Mac down right. If I didn't, you can tell me, I'll make the corrections, and do all that good stuff.

So…yeah. Peace.


	16. Man's Best Friend

Chapter Sixteen is up.

And we're rolling.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen- Man's Best Friend

Sanderson just stared at her with that wide-eyed expression on his face. She looked around at the other operators, confused, though none of them were paying any attention. He still looked at her, stunned, his mouth opened but no words forming.

"You're Anna," he finally choked out.

She nodded slowly. "Yes…"

"Anna Hall?"

"Yes…"

"You…_You're_ Horan's girlfriend?"

"_Ex_-girlfriend," she corrected, looking somewhat depressed at the subject.

"But you two went out? You're his old girlfriend?"

"Yes, already, I'm Anna Hall. Will you cut it out?"

Of all the lucky breaks to have been thrown his way, Sanderson never thought it would be this one that would've come to him. With everything that had happened over the last twenty-four hours or so, he had completely forgotten the promise he had made to Horan before they had left the base. It found it weird that of all the college kids he could find in this city, it had to be Anna Hall that he would run into.

"This is incredible," he said aloud. "How…why…how come you're here? Didn't the civilians get pulled out the other day? Umbrella was supposed to take you all out of the hostile zone-"

"Most of them did," she answered, getting more somber. "But a lot of us never made it to the collection point. The zombies got the others instead-"

"_What_?" Sanderson said it sharp enough to cause her to flinch. "Wait…hold up…did you just say _zombies_?"

She huffed. "You've seen them," she said. "You've fought them probably. If they're not zombies, I don't know what you'd call them."

As she said it, he was instantly reminded of that guy they had found hours ago, the one that he had shot in the head after he had gotten up, seemingly dead, and it seemed t make sense for him. These things could only be defined by a theoretical stand-point, and this was one.

"Alright, fair enough," he nodded. "Continue."

"We had just woken up when we found out about what was going on, and at that point, we were on our own. So we just tried to find a place where we could hide and wait for someone to find us. You're the only living people we've seen so far."

"Probably the only ones left…" Sanderson looked out into the city. Zombies, as slow and as stupid as they were, hunted in packs. They had extended sight and extended hearing, and once they had a hunt, they didn't give up until they had it cornered. They didn't get tired; they could bang on a door for months before it finally gave way. In a way, he thought with a mix of fascination and resentment, they really were the perfect hunters.

"Are you the only ones?" she asked him.

"There're other teams," he answered, still looking out. "Where they are right now is another story. My guys were dropped in at a different time and place, and we've had no radio contact, so-"

He shrugged. He said "dropped in" quite loosely, figuring it would be best to make it seem like they were supposed to be their instead of were there on accident. It made them feel better, if they had the pretense of everything being under control, even when in reality, things were so far out of control they could not be salvaged.

"Tom too?"

He stopped. She was looking down at the ground, at her feet. He looked back at her, and gave her a light smile, which she raised her head to see.

"Yeah," he answered. "He's here. And he'll be happy to know that you're with me and you're OK. We'll get you back as soon as we can, alright?"

She nodded. Horan had been right; she _was_ a really strong girl. But, thinking about who they were talking about, Sanderson could see where she got it from.

"Alright, everyone, listen up," he got up and went over to where the rest of their group was sitting, Anna right behind him. "We've got a lot of ground to cover and not a whole lot of time to cover it. We're gonna try to get out of the hostile zone, and back to friendly territory. There are numerous hostiles in the area, so stick to us at all times. Listen to my men, follow my orders, and I will have all of you back at the safe zone as soon as I can.

"For reference, my name is Sergeant Sanderson, I'm team leader. The man next to me is my assistant, Corporal Bielski. Behind you is our sniper, Private Shipley, and at the door is our machine-gunner, Private Hallings. We will be your escorts, are there any questions?"

The two guys shook their heads.

"Alright, now, your names."

Sanderson looked at the smarter one, the one with the gelled-hair. He looked up at him, then left and right, then back up, snapping to attention.

"Me? Oh, uh, Jim."

"Last name?"

"Rhodes."

"And you?" This time he was looking at the blonde-haired kid, who looked like he was stoned. Like his friend, he looked confused for a few moments, and then he must've realized the sergeant was talking to him.

"Oh…uh, Buchanan."

Sanderson closed his eyes. This kid was doing the exact opposite of what his friend had done. They couldn't just give their full names? Apparently, these two weren't the brightest bulbs on the tree.

"First name too, kid," he said.

"Travis. What's yours?"

Shipley slapped his hand over his face. Sanderson and Bielski gave each other a tiring look. This was not going to be a simple little operation at all.

"Alright," the sergeant just grabbed his CAR-15 and hoisted his bag onto his shoulders. "Let's get going."

-------------------------------------------------

In another part of the city, the zombies were walking, stumbling down the streets in no particular order or group gathering. Three of those figures, however were different. They walked in a row, walking upright and casually, and were all holding weapons. And, unlike the moans of the undead, one spoke-sang, actually- in a humane tongue, taking a breath between every line:

"'Show me the way to go home…I'm tired and I wanna go to bed…I had a couple drinks 'bout an hour ago…and it went right to my head'-"

"God, Jax, will you just shut the fuck _up_ already?"

"What's your problem?"

"My problem is that you've been singing that song for five hours! It's giving me a goddam headache, alright? I mean, Christ, you don't even know the whole song! You've just been singing the same goddam verse for five hours!"

"Well, then, what would you suggest I sing, Your Highness?"

"I dunno…something upbeat, something cheery. Just pick a new fucking song already!"

Tom couldn't help but laugh inwardly at his two friends' bickering. It was weird how, despite being in the biggest fight of their lives, some things never changed.

"OK, fine, um…" Jackson paused for a moment to think of a song, and then began singing again.

"'This is the song that never ends'-"

"NOOOOOO!" Both Tom and Nelson protested on this one, voicing rather loud opinions. "No, no no no!"

"Jesus, tough crowd," muttered Jackson. "Alright, lesse…"

"Jax, how's about we turn the radio off for awhile?" Tom suggested. "Have some quiet time."

"Ha! This from the guy who's always got to have the fucking radio on in the Humvees because he goes ballistic without his music."

"Let me rephrase that, then: How's about we have a break from the shitty music so we can have some quiet time and wait for some good music?"

"Bite me."

"No thanks. The zombies can take care of that better than I can."

Nelson laughed, just a little snort. This was good; keeping humor amongst the men so that they didn't crack under the circumstances. After dealing with zombies, giant green lizards, monsters with long, slimy, razor-sharp tongues- not to mention having to put down one of their own men like a dog- it was way too easy to lose your cool. Joking around, as juvenile as it was, kept them in balance and from going insane and shooting each other.

They had been walking, almost non-stop, since they had left Cribbs' body in that flat. And, aside from a few harmless zombie encounters, things hadn't gone too bad. It was 11:32 p.m. Soon, it'd be morning again. And they were still no closer to getting out than they had hours ago.

Tom looked around. They were near his old neighborhood now, where he and Anna and their friends had grown up. Seeing it now, it looked like a war zone; objects were all over the ground, thrown there as if they were being used as weapons, everything from broomsticks to the playground kits that the toddlers played in. He knew there were a lot of little kids in the neighborhood, and he suddenly felt a ting of dread.

He knew how zombies ate, of course. No playing with their food, no preferences, no table manners. Just dig into your prey and rip their innards out, or bite into their necks and more than likely hit an artery. Back in high school, he had nearly obsessed himself in the graphicness in the undead that he considered himself an expert. He knew how they came into being, how the infection spread, how to handle an outbreak if it ever occurred. He just never thought he would ever have to apply that logic to real life.

Until now.

He stopped suddenly, which caused Jackson, who had fallen back so that he was right behind him, plowed right into his back. Next thing either private knew, their sergeant was bee-lining through the bushes and up to a big white house at the corner of the street. Were its walls not covered in blood, and the large windows peering into the kitchen not smashed, it would be a fairly nice house.

Tom was trying to force the door open, by either kicking it open or wrestling with the handle. Neither was working. It was one of those old sturdy doors, with the thick locks and it wasn't going down without a fight

He turned to his two men. "Nelson, in the garage, at the far window from the door, there's a key under a New Mexican license plate. Go and get it."

"Um…OK?" The medic gave him a weird look, but then obeyed.

"Uh, Sarge, not that I'm not hungry and all, but shouldn't we be looking for a way out of the city instead of a way into this really shitty mess of a pigsty?" This was asked by Jackson.

"Just shut up and get ready to burst in at the ready," his sergeant said, flipping the safety off on his rifle.

"But what's so important about-?"

But that was all he got before his team leader turned around, face red with either anger or frustration, and screamed loud in his face: "BECAUSE THIS IS _MY_ SHITTY MESS OF A PIGSTY HOUSE, YOU FUCKING PRICK!!!"

He turned back to his door and gave it another kick. Behind him, he heard Jackson sigh.

"Well, y'know Sarge, if you had just told me that sooner, I probably would've chosen my words a _little_ more carefully," he said.

Nelson returned from the garage, holding up a small silver key. Tom grabbed it and shoved it into the lock. The medic gave Jackson a skeptical look; Jackson just shrugged.

"Weapons ready, on me!"

Tom removed the key and threw it aside, then pushed the latch on the handle down and kicked the door wide open. Backing up, he raised his CAR-15 and went in, the two other men on the team right behind him with his weapons ready.

The kitchen was huge; Jackson almost watered at the mouth as he began to imagine the kind of food the place could hold. The counter in the middle was marble; above it were racks with a wide variety of frying pans and pots. Near the oven, there had a rack of knives lined up on a magnetic board, and a bowl of spices next to the stove. Several cookbooks were stacked up on the counter, each one as big as the other. This wasn't just an ordinary kitchen, the machine-gunner realized; this was the kitchen of a gourmet.

"Sweet monkey shit…" He immediately tore open one of the cabinets and began rummaging through the cereal boxes. Tom cut left into the dining room, calling out every so often.

"Mom? Dad?"

There were no answers. He panicked. Were they among the dead? No, they had to be here, they couldn't be dead…there was no way…

Nelson watched as Jackson poured a bowl of Reese's Puffs and added milk, and then watched him proceed to shovel it into his mouth like a ravenous lunatic.

"OK, we're in Sarge's house, we're trying to find his family…and you're proceeding to eat all the food in his cabinets," he stated flatly.

"Yeff," his partner said through a stuffed mouth, as he, while still eating the cereal, also pulled out a loaf of French bread and ripped a piece of it off with his teeth.

"You do realize this is probably where the virus that turned all these people came from, right?"

"If it is, then at least I can go undead on an already full stomach."

"I swear to God, you're a…what in the damned hell is _that_?" the medic looked cock-eyed at cheese and pepperoni rolled into a preheated bread roll, which Jackson was about to eat.

The machine-gunner stopped, examined the item carefully, then took a bite and looked back at Nelson.

"I don't know," he finally said.

"You don't know what it is…and you're eating it."

"Pretty much, yeah."

Nelson just shook his head and walked off to the dining room. Jackson was despicable when it came to his eating habits. That's why he sat away from the man in the mess halls; the way he ate could make even the toughest Delta troops sick to their stomachs.

He sat down on the couch in the front hall and sighed. Finally, a time to rest. They had been walking non-stop for hours now, stopping only to engage in a firefight or two with the once-living inhabitants. Headshots were doing wonders, but they had to be careful. Ammo was limited at the moment. He still had a few clips left, but his sub-machine gun could chew through 800-900 rounds per minute, which meant in a fierce firefight, they would probably only last a few minutes. Maybe only a few seconds.

Christ, he needed a drink. Imagine that; him, a medic, needing a beer. But that was just how he felt. This whole damn operation was probably gonna throw him into alcoholism when he got back. _If_ he got back.

_Shut up, Nelson,_ he thought to himself. _You're gonna make it out of here. You've come too damn far to die here._

_BAM!_

Right away, as if it were a reflex, he was back on his feet and aiming his semi-automatic weapon at the door in front of him. Something had just pounded against it. And whatever it was, it was still banging away, though it wasn't close to breaking down the door. Far from it. That at least ruled out those giant lizards. He didn't have to worry about being impaled on those claws.

But what was it then? Nervously clicking off the safety, he inched closer to the door and put his hand on the handle. The scratching continued, and now he could hear whimpering on the other side as well. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle.

Upstairs, Tom had stumbled upon his old bedroom. He had taken off his helmet and was running his hand through his sweat-soaked hair as he looked around at his former living quarters.

Everything was as he had left it. His large master bed was still neatly made from when he had left. His stereo was still underneath the window on top of the ledge; his bass guitar and amp were below, the instrument still in its case. His TV was still perched up high on top of his large dresser. Everything was there; nothing had been touched. It was both relieving and eerie for the young sergeant, this all being as he had last seen it.

He looked around some more, and then he stopped.

His grandfather's bear was still sitting in the rocking chair. Incredible. He had had this bear since he was three years old, when his grandpa had given it to him, and it had been his favorite toy throughout his childhood. And, when his grandpa died three years afterwards, he hadn't gotten rid of it. He had kept it, right there on the rocking chair. His only real memory of the old man.

Tom picked it up, suddenly sentimental. He and this bear had had a lot of good times when he was a kid. It'd be a damn shame to let all those good times. He unzipped the top compartment on his backpack and put the bear in, then zipped it up. Hoisting it back onto his shoulders, he suddenly felt a lot better.

That is, until he heard the scream.

His head spun around to the sound of it. It came from downstairs. And he didn't need someone radioing him in to know that it was Nelson.

Fully alert, he jammed his helmet back on his head, grabbed his rifle and rushed down the stairs, his mind buzzing with all sorts of horrid thoughts. What had happened? Was Nelson in trouble? Was he hurt? Was he…Tom was already responsible for one of his teammates' deaths. Would he have to be responsible for another? He hit the bottom step and turned the corner, not knowing whether to shout, help his teammate, or start pulling the trigger.

When he got to the scene, however, all he could do was laugh.

Jackson was standing over Nelson- who was lying on the ground, looking shocked, relieved, and pissed all at once- and laughing hysterically while a small Golden Doodle was sitting on his chest, licking his face. The dog widely resembled a Golden Retriever, but her skin was pure white, like a poodle's. Her eyes were huge and innocent, and her breath was warm and muggy. Unlike the zombie dogs they had encountered, this one had not been touched by the undead.

"Getting attacked and licked by a dog no taller than my knee…can this get any more embarrassing for me?" the medic asked aloud.

"Probably not," replied Jackson, wiping his face from the tears caused by his laughter.

"Come here, Daisy," the Sarge got on his knees and clapped for the dog to come. "C'mere, girl."

The dog instantly got off the poor operator and went over to lick her master's hand. He held it out, palm up, and she sat back and placed her paw into the palm, which the sergeant then closed around and shook "hands". He grinned. There was at least one member of his family that was for sure OK, though he never would've expected it to be the family mutt.

"Now to just find the rest of the family," he said, looking around again. "I've got no idea where-"

"Sarge, look."

Jackson walked to the front door and pulled an orange marker out from behind one of the window shades. He waved it to the other guys.

"I remember Command telling us about this right before we arrived at the base," he told them. "They said if they ever had to go to an evacuation plan, they would put up these little panels to let the other units know the house already got hit. Orange meant that they found survivors and got them out."

"So my family's OK?" Tom asked eagerly.

"It's definitely looking good now, at any rate."

He breathed out a sigh of relief. If his family had gotten pulled out, then that was all he really had to worry about for the time being. Now, all they had to do was to get out and find the exit.

"Alright," he stood back up, getting back into command mode. "Jackson, do a final sweep of the kitchen and take any food you can find. Cereal, bread, snack foods, anything non-perishable. It'd be better than just having to break down a house every time we need something to eat. Nelson, grab the dog treats and make a couple paper bags to fill up the dog food."

"Wait, why am I-?" And then it registered on Nelson what he was saying.

"No, _no_, NO! No way, nuh uh," he protested, waving his arms. "We're not bringing the dog with us."

"Aw, c'mon, Nelson," Jackson bent down and pointed Daisy's face towards the medic. "How can you say no to dis wittle face?"

"Simple: I know where she _puts_ it."

"She's coming with us, Nelson, and that's non-negotiable." Tom rummaged through the drawers and pulled out a box of Ritz Crackers. "I'm not asking you to take care of her, I'll do that. But she's the only somewhat-biological family I've got right now, and I'll be damned if I'm leaving her behind."

The tone was final, and although Nelson tried to voice an argument, he couldn't get anything to come out. He just grumbled as he began scooping dog food into a brown paper bag.

"If that thing sniffs my ass once, I'm shooting it," he said to Jackson.

"Yeah, then good luck trying to find a way out by yourself," the other man laughed.

Nelson flipped him the finger as he bent down and turned to get some more food-

-And found himself face-to-face with one of the zombified dogs, its skin dead, and its one ear hanging by a thread, but its teeth still sharp and salivating. Nelson stared right into its eyes, those eyes filled with bloodlust, and gulped.

"Nice doggie," he whimpered softly. "Good boy…"

It lunged. Nelson had time only to fire off a quick three-round burst before he fell backward. He lifted his MP-5 just as the dog pounced on his chest and fired off the next twenty or so rounds into its head and chest, sending it flying backwards with a whimper.

"We got contact!"

At the words, Tom picked his head up. Now he could hear more growling coming down from the basement, moving fast up towards them. They had stayed in the house too long; they had figured out where they were. Either that or they had been there the whole time the team had. Either way, they now had to run and gun to get out of there.

Another dog ran up the basement steps. Nelson fired the remainder of his clip at it, and then ran as more dogs came up the steps. He made it past Horan just as the sergeant pulled out his 9mm and fired a round one dogs' brain, dropping him. Jackson skidded around the corner and let out a machine gun burst that cut down two more dogs.

That was when Daisy pounced on one of the dogs and buried her teeth into its neck. It howled and twisted and turned but the living-dog stayed firm and kept biting and tearing into its neck. Tom fired two more rounds into the undead one's front kneecaps. It fell forward and Daisy released her grip and ran over to her master as it fired one more round into its brain, silencing it for good.

Nelson sat behind the counter and fumbled for one of his grenades. Tom and Jackson ran by, the little Golden Doodle right behind, as he pulled the pin and rolled it out. He grabbed his submachine gun and bolted for the door right behind them.

It exploded as they reached the door. Behind them they could hear the cries and whimpers of the dying dogs, but they could also hear the growls and howls of the ones that were still up and still hungry. Tom threw the door open and waited for his squad to file out.

"Grenade!" he shouted to Nelson.

The medic took another grenade from his belt and tossed it to the sergeant, who proceeded to pull the pin and roll it in before he closed the door behind him.

As they ran for the street, they heard the detonation, along with more cries and howls. They didn't know if they had gotten them all, but all four of them had made it, and there was no way for their pursuers to follow them, so, for the time being, they could relax a little.

"Alright, we've gotta keep moving," said Tom, stuffing his handgun back into its holster.

"Goddammit, Sarge, how many near-death experiences are you going to put us through before you finally succeed in killing us?" Jackson questioned as he and Nelson filed in behind their team leader.

"Dunno yet," Tom replied, throwing the two a casual grin. "Lemme get back to you on that one."

And so the three men moved out, one next to the other with some space in between that Daisy weaved in and out through on occasion. They were back on the cold, dark, empty road through hell.

But somehow, to Tom anyway, the road didn't seem as bad as it had an hour ago.

* * *

Just finished the last two or three pages now, thought I'd make y'all happy and post it today.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. I hope you're all enjoying it as much as I am.

Peace out until next time.


	17. The Depths of Hell

Chapter Seventeen is up.

Time to check in on Delta One.

Make sure you read the notes at the end of the chapter, because they're very important.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: The Depths of Hell

_The fire fight was bad. Enemy machine guns were firing from everywhere; the occasional RPG whisked past their heads like a mis-thrown football. The operators fought back with everything they had, but not without cost to themselves; Ransford, their point-man, was cold and unmoving, three holes through his bulky body armor and his chest._

_The lieutenant peaked out from cover long enough to see several Iraqi soldiers, two with RPG tubes, moving off to the right before machine-gun cover peppered the slab of wall he was hiding behind. He looked next to him as his machine-gunner returned fire with short, steady bursts with his M-60._

"_Shit, LT, we're really screwed here!"_

_Foley darted across the street and landed right next to where Lieutenant Bradley was and instantly raised his sniper rifle and fired at a soldier that had tried to set up a mortar off to the left of the restaurant. The man went down, his hands clutching his neck as powerful spurts of blood shot out in geysers, staining the brown sand red._

_Connors peeked up from his machine gun._

"_LT, we gotta get out of here before the whole city comes down on us," he spoke out. "We're sitting ducks right here."_

"_I'm working on it," answered the lieutenant, and as he spoke he got up and fired a three-round burst at a flanking Guardsman. He watched the three shots impact the man's chest, tear it apart, and he got back behind cover as the other fell on his back._

"_We've got to meet up with Green Team," he said to his soldiers. "They should already be at the link-up location on the map."_

"_That's still two blocks away, how the hell are we gonna make it there with all this shooting?" Costello, a soldier from Ohio with greasy red hair and a golden tooth, wanted to know._

"_Fire and maneuver. On my mark, everyone covers Smith as he crosses over to the other street. Then we'll go Foley, Doc, Costello, Chavez, Marino, Connors, and then me. We'll keep doing this to the target building. On my mark, get ready."_

_Connors picked up his M-60 and brought the stock to his shoulder. Costello and Chavez, their New Mexican-native demolitions expert with the red birthmark on the left side of his face, raised their M-4's. Smith, the balding Missouri native with the neat mustache, prepared to run._

_When the order came, there was a hail of bullets unleashed upon the advancing army, enough so that it was impossible for them to return fire. Smith ran at full speed, faster than Bradley had ever seen him move. Occasionally, a bullet snapped at his leg or zipped past his head, but he made it without any problems and without a scratch._

"_Foley, you're up!" the lieutenant shouted. "Go!"_

_The sniper instantly got up and started running even before the covering fire commenced. One of the faster runners on the force, despite being the most clumsy, he made it over in no time at all, and even managed to get up with just his pistol and fire a round into an Iraqi leg. The enemy soldier fell, shouted, got back up and limped back behind cover._

_Doc was next. Their beefy Wisconsin native medic wearing the thick square-shaped glasses was the slowest in the group. As he was also one of the most important, that meant when the order to cover him came up again, more ammunition was used up than needed. The man tripped twice, and came so close to getting shot that Bradley was afraid he wouldn't make it. But somehow, he barrel-rolled behind the cover and rested against it, panting heavily but unscathed._

_The fire from the other side was intensifying now. Then a machine gun from an upper balcony window opened down on them, with little puffs of dirt shooting up from the wall where the fast moving bullets were hitting. The RPG fire was starting to become more accurate. There was no point in denying it any further; this was no longer a safe place to stay._

"_We need to keep moving!" he shouted to his remaining soldiers. "We're gonna go two at a time now, speed this up a bit. Costello, Chavez, you're up! Move!"_

_He fired a 203 round as close as he could to the machine gun nest as the two soldiers crossed the street to where the rest of their team was waiting. A bullet ran alongside the back of Chavez's leg, tearing the pant leg, but leaving only a tiny scratch. He yelped quickly, paused a second to fire a quick burst from his M-4, and then joined the others behind cover._

"_LT! Enemy armor coming in from the west, we gotta move!"_

_Bradley looked up then and saw then what Connors had spotted that he himself had missed; a T-72 tank, made by Russia and currently in Iraqi operation. It was coming at them with their heavily-armored front, the turret swerving towards the Delta operators. They had a couple of LAWs, but against it's front end, they would do nothing more than leave a skid mark._

_There was only one thing they could do._

"_Move! Get across the street!" Bradley ordered._

_Connors got his 60 up and rushed across the street, dodging bullets and returning fire on his own. Marino, the assistant gunner from Florida, ran behind him with Bradley directly behind him._

_Marino was shot before they made it across. There was not enough time to register, no yells of pain, just a hard slap to the side of his head and a blob of blood blasting outward and painting the ground red. The tiny man fell sideways and into Bradley's arm as he reached forward and grabbed him. The weight forced him down and he tumbled with the corpse just before they reached cover._

_Connors pulled them back in, and Doc rolled Marino over to check him. The bullet had passed through one side and stuck out from the other side, the tip a few centimeters from the skull. His eyes were wide and unseeing, his mouth open just a bit._

"_Jesus, he's dead," said Doc, looking up at the lieutenant._

_Bradley sighed. That made two men down in under an hour. How had they ended up in this mess? When Sam had presented that plan, he had made it sound so easy. Get in, find the chemical weapon plant, destroy it, and get out. They had not counted on all this resistance...and the tank? Where had THAT come from, thin air? Clearly, someone had messed up._

"_Tag his body and let's keep moving," he ordered. "Keep him out of sight for now."_

_It was the only thing they could do. Carrying Ransford's body, and now Marino's, was stretching it further than it already was. Ransford was in a place already ID'ed by command; he had probably already been picked up by the ground forces. Marino would have to be the same. They could not afford to waste any more time._

_The chemical weapon plant was the source of the Iraqi chemical warfare. Just because they had not used it yet did not mean they could not, which is why Delta had been sent in. Bradley had been given four extra men on this job, forming the "Blue Team", as his was the bulk of the assignment. The other team, "Green Team", headed by Sergeant Kimball, would be coming in from the other side of town. They would have to act fast, however, if they were going to stop that stuff from going off. One canister could take out an entire town. They could not let that happen._

_Chavez and Doc planted a strobe in Marino's vest pocket for the chopper to tag him and hid him among some rubble. Costello grabbed two clips from the dead operator's vest and added them to his ammo count. They were running severely low; any longer down there and they would not have a prayer._

"_Let's go! Move it out!" the lieutenant ordered his men._

_His men got up and nodded. They knew just as well as he did the risks. They would just have to make do._

_More fire was coming from the windows and rooftops. The men returned fire as they ran, but they were outnumbered both in men and in strategy. These were smart soldiers, probably some of Saddam's best. They were the best too, but they had the lower hand._

_Fire and maneuver was their best strategy, and even that was failing them. They were a block away from the meeting point when Chavez was shot. A bullet entered his left side and came out his right, chipping his ribcage on the way out. Chavez seemed to puke blood, his face locked in surprise, and then he fell forward and stayed down, his ass up in the air, one arm stuck under him, the other thrown outward._

"_Keep moving! Don't stop!" Bradley screamed._

_They had no choice but to leave him as he was, in the middle of the street, with all the shooting going on. If someone stopped, they would just lose another, and another. Chavez was left in the dirt, and the operators continued._

_Three blocks and twenty minutes later, they reached the rally point. The courtyard was quiet, for once, nothing but littered, destroyed cars and battered debris. The men took a crouch and caught their breaths. Costello drank greedily from his canteen. Smith removed his sweat-soaked helmet and lit a cigarette._

_Bradley looked around, frowning. They were the only souls in the courtyard, just the six of them. _

"_Where's Green Team?" he asked aloud, to no one in particular. It was not as if any of the others would know. "Where the hell is Kimball?"_

_He took the comm link off from his radio and brought it to his mouth._

"_Green Team, this is Blue Team, what's your coordinates, over?"_

_There was no answer, just static._

"_Green Team, this is Blue Team, come in. Can you hear me, over?"_

_This time there was just nothing, not even a whisper of static. The lieutenant looked around concernedly at his men. The whole rest of the operation depended on this link-up, with Kimball and his men. Had they been killed? Captured? What?_

"_There's no word from Green Team," he told the men. "We may be on our own."_

"_LT, we're low on ammo and meds, we ain't gonna last that much longer," reported Costello._

"_we'll just have to make do."_

"_Maybe we should call it in, Boss-"_

"_We are NOT falling back, Connors! We have a job to do, that facility has to be disabled-"_

_BAM!_

_The stray bullet left from a window, they did not see which, but ended up in the dirt covered in blood. Bradley, lost for a moment in the speech, watched the blood fly on the sand, and then looked over at Smith just as he fell backwards, the back of his head gone, the front having a large messy hole in his uncovered bald head. The look on his face was one of calm serenity; he had never known what had hit him._

_More shooters were coming in from the windows, and they were taking concentrated shots at the Delta team. They instantly took cover behind the bombed-out cars. Connors and Foley returned fire, the former spraying windows wherever he saw shots while the latter made more accurate shots. Bradley and Costello opened fire with their own weapons, while Doc dragged Smith behind the cars._

"_Christ, he's fucked up!" he exclaimed._

"_Tag him and let's go! We gotta move!" Bradley snapped._

_The medic opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again. He grabbed the marker and stuck it to the dead man's vest, then stuffed him under some more debris. He wiped his hands, taking a few deep breaths before lifting his M-4 and resuming fire._

_Bradley felt it too. It was growing with every man they lost; the tightness in his chest, the feeling of despair in his heart. It was the feeling that the enemy was getting more and more deadly, and they were getting more and more weak. Not for the first time, he began to wonder if any of them were going to make it back home._

_Another RPG rocked the vehicles. He shook the feeling off. If he lost control, then they were all fucked, and he could not allow that to happen. He stood up, his finger on the trigger for his grenade launcher under his rifle, arched it at a window with an RPG gunner, and fired a big fat 203 round into the window. The explosion blew the window and a good section of the wall in addition to the gunner._

"_Move! Keep moving! Use the cars as cover!" he ordered._

_Connors and Foley kept the fire up while Doc and Costello crawled past, on their bellies, occasionally stopping to fire on the enemy. Then those two lifted their weapons and joined them. Bradley remained behind, firing his grenade launcher, and then ducked and joined the rest._

_They ducked into a back alley; the fire seemed to die down completely, as though they had entered a bubble that blocked out all sounds and objects. Bradley took the silence to check the map. If they continued along the alleys, they would reach the facility in under thirty minutes, so long as they did not hit any blocks or enemy fortifications. Granted, it would probably take a little longer, going around instead of straight through, but if they ran, it was possible they could still keep the time schedule._

_He folded the map, stuffed it in the vest pocket, and nodded to his men. They nodded as well._

_He led them through back alley after back alley, a network of alleys that seemed to be endless. Each one was dank and reeked of garbage and other god-awful fragrances, but at least they were not being shot at. Not that they did not come close. More than once they had to hide from enemy patrols- Jeeps with .50 caliber machine guns mounted on the top- and one time they were almost spotted by a sniper. But no more shots were fired, and no one was hit, for which they were very grateful._

_It was only another couple blocks to the target, and still Bradley felt apprehensive. There were too many things going on at once, and too many things going wrong too. Sam had not given them all the details; he could confirm that now. He had deliberately left that whole part about the Iraqi Guardsmen and the armored units out of the briefing. Why? Had he given Blue Team the wrong link-up coordinates as well, and sent Green Team somewhere else? Bradley was beginning to wonder if there was even a facility at all...no, even Sam would not be THAT heartless to just send them out into the middle of enemy-occupied territory, it was just too cruel, even too him._

_He stopped short, a little too short, short that his men collided into him. Everyone dropped onto a knee; Foley and Connors peered out with the lieutenant._

_There it was. The target building; the chemical factory. For some reason, it was a lot smaller than they had expected it to be, only one story and just big enough for one, maybe two test rooms, judging by the perimeter. It was a small gray one-story building, and for a fleeting moment, Bradley believed again that Sam had screwed them over._

_That was, until he saw Iraqi soldiers herding civilians up the street and up to the building._

"_What the hell? What are they doing?" Connors whispered into the lieutenant's ear._

_Foley aimed his rifle at one of their heads, but Bradley motioned for him to hold his fire. They needed to see where this was going.  
_

_The crowd was huge; almost as if they had gotten the whole town together. At least forty or fifty soldiers were gathered around them acting as guards...but was it guarding against Delta or against the civilians? Bradley frowned as he watched the guards occasionally shove an innocent person through the door, sometimes using their rifles to do it. The mothers clutched their young children to their breasts, while the men held their women tightly. One after the other they were herded in...almost like cows into the slaughterhouse..._

_Bradley's eyes widened._

"_Oh my God..."_

_Foley looked up. "What?"_

"_Think- why would soldiers be allowing civilians into a chemical weapon factory?"_

_Connors' eyes widened next._

"_'Cause they know they ain't gonna come back out..."_

_That horrible revelation came just as they herded the last of the innocents into the building. The guards began to lower their weapons and proceeded into the building too._

"_FUCK!"_

"_Connors, STOP!"_

_Connors sprinted out from around the corner and charged the building at full speed, his 60 up and firing at the fleeing guards. He managed to stitch one right across his back, three bullets that punctured the spinal cord and hitting the lungs. The man crumpled, and his partner, looking surprised, rushed for the doors. Connors broke out into a full sprint, his machine gun barely even weighing him down with his adrenaline rush. The guard fired a quick shot, completely mis-firing, and grabbed both doors._

_He slammed them shut just as Connors was about to sprint in. The big gunner smashed right into the doors, but they did not even shudder; they were locked tight._

"_Shit!" Connors slung his machine gun off its strap, twisted it so that the butt was facing the door, and brought it against it with a loud thud. "Come on, open up!"_

_Bradley and the rest of the team slowed down as they reached the door. Foley grabbed his rifle and began smashing its butt against the door along with Connors in the attempt to get the doors open. But they would not budge; they were heavy steel, probably double-reinforced to withstand an explosion from one of their test subjects. C-4 would do the trick definitely; he reached into Costello's pouch to grab one of the charges._

_And that was when the screams started._

_It was not just one that triggered it, but all of them simultaneously. Men, women, and children of all ages. Their screams pierced Bradley's eardrums worse than any artillery shell, worse than anything else he had ever heard in his life. What was worse, there had been no shots fired; the soldiers had unleashed the gas._

_The screams forced Foley and Connors to work faster, smashing their rifle butts harder and harder against the doors. And then they began to smell it; the faint odor that was seeping up from under the door, not enough to kill them but enough for them to get the idea. The screams were reaching the high point of mass hysteria, and though the two operators fought on, nothing they did made a dent in the door._

_They could not use the C-4 now; not with all the gas. It would just kill them too, and he could not allow that. This whole thing was his fault; he should have acted faster, realized what had been going on sooner than he had. He probably could have saved most of the civilians, maybe all of them if they had acted fast enough. On the plus, the facility could now officially be rendered inoperable; it would be impossible for the workers to have a safe work environment with this level of toxics released. On the down, an entire town of people had just been gassed._

_Gradually, the screams began to die down as the gas started to take its toll. A few moments later, the screams died entirely._

_The two D-Boys stopped hammering once it registered that there was no more life on the other side of the door. They both let their arms slump, their rifles limp in their arms. Connors let the heavy gun hang on its straps as he fell to his knees, a look of despair and shame etched in on his face. He glanced up at the lieutenant and back down, ashamed to look._

"_Sorry, Boss..." he said quietly._

_Bradley shook his head._

"_It was my fault," he told him, "not yours."_

"_If I had just been faster...I could've-"_

"_Mickey, it was MY call. Alright? I made the call not to act. So if God wants to blame someone for this, He's just going to have to blame me. It's no one's fault but mine."_

"_The whole town..." Foley shook his head and when he looked at them, for the first time that they had known each other, there were signs of tears in his eyes for Bradley to see. "God, LT, all those people..."_

_Doc and Costello stood staring silently at the door that had sealed the civilians to their fates, too stunned to say a word. Bradley got back on the radio, this time linking him to headquarters._

"_Command, this is Blue Team," he said._

"_Roger, come in, Blue Team." Sam Arnold's voice rang in over the comm._

"_Facility is disabled; the soldiers just locked all the civilians inside and gassed them." He lowered his voice so that only hear and the voice on the other end could hear. "Sam, we need to talk when we get back."_

_There was silence on the other end for a moment. Then Sam's voice returned._

"_Okay...well, you're not out of the woods yet. We just got an emergency distress beacon activated in the city, about a block away from your current position. Halos will be on sight and ready when you get there. So make sure the facility is completely destroyed and then make your way over there."_

"_Roger that. We're on it."_

_He hung up the phone and looked at the remainder of his team._

"_Heads up! We got a distress beacon activated in the city! We're gonna go pick them up and get evacuated right after."_

"_Someone's still alive out here?" asked Costello, amazed. "One of ours, you think?"_

"_We'll find out. Connors, Doc, throw some incendiaries through the windows, make sure that place is fully aflame, and then we'll get going."_

_Doc nodded and unhooked his flame grenades. Connors did not move at first; he still knelt before the door, staring at the ground despondently. The lieutenant placed his hand on his friend's shoulder._

"_Mick," he said, "I need you calm and cool right now. There will be plenty of time to mourn later."_

_The machine gunner looked up at him, wiped his eyes, and nodded. He was still in the game. They still had a job._

_Ten minutes later, the building was aflame with several incendiary grenades thrown through the windows. The chemical weapons factory, their objective, was now a crematorium for all the gassed-victims. They watched it burn for an extra three minutes before finally turning away and continuing on to their next objective._

_The fire was beginning to pick up again as they moved towards the beacon, not much but enough to keep them suppressed every now and again. RPGs increased, two at a time, sending dirt and shrapnel into the air. They continued to return fire, and every now and again to hit someone with a bullet or two, but it always seemed that more popped up whenever they shot one._

_When they reached the building, they saw the source of the trouble; a lone man, taking cover behind a destroyed vehicle, bleeding from bullet wounds to his legs and chest and clutching an empty AK-47 to his chest. The team moved over to him and set up a small perimeter around him. Doc knelt down and began administering First Aid to the dying man._

"_LT," he suddenly said, "I think this guy's a Kuwaiti politician."_

"_What?" the lieutenant whirled around. "How do you know?"_

"_I was at one of his rallies, distributing food to the children. I'm pretty sure that's him. Tangos must've been hauling him off and he got away."_

"_LT!" Costello looked over his shoulder, looking nervous. "We got this guy, can we get the fuck out of here now?"_

_Before the lieutenant could answer, the soldier was sniped through the head by a 7.62 sniper bullet. The bullet went through his Delta helmet, through his brain, and got lodged in the other side of the helmet; just like Marino had had earlier. Costello's mouth opened and closed, trying to speak, but then just slumped onto his side and lay still._

_Connors and Foley opened fire as another platoon of Iraqi soldiers emerged from the buildings and opened up on them with AK-74s and other automatic weapons. Bradley looked up at the sky. The choppers were overhead, not firing, not doing anything until they called in. He cursed softly. Only in the army did you have to get PERMISSION to come and save someone under fire._

_He got on the phone._

"_This is Blue Team!" he screamed into the receiver. "We need a medivac down here for a critically wounded Kuwaiti politician ASAP! I've got five men down, my team is pinned down behind the...orange Sedan, can you get visual, over?"_

"_Roger that, Blue Team. Desert Hawk is on-sight, be down ASAP!"_

"_Doc! Extract is here! Get the package up and moving, NOW!" Bradley ordered._

"_I'm trying-"_

_BAM! The bullet slammed right into Doc's chest and remained there, absorbed by the vest. Doc grunted, eyes wide, and slumped backward. He stared up at the sky, breathing heavily in wheezy breaths._

"_DOC!" Bradley knelt beside him and propped him up. "Hang in there, don't you fucking die on me!"_

"_LT! Chopper's down, let's MOVE!"_

_Connors fired off the last belt of ammunition he had while Foley grabbed Costello's limp body and dragged him back to the chopper. Bradley lifted Doc onto his shoulders, grabbed the Kuwaiti man and followed suit, with Connors right behind them firing on the oncoming Iraqi soldiers. The chopper lowered almost flat onto the ground, the crew chiefs using their mini-guns to support them. Foley got there first, dragging his dead friend onto the deck of the bird. Connors turned, his weapon empty, and grabbed the legs of the half-dead politician and helped move him onto the bird. Bradley backed into and fell onto it, Doc falling off his shoulders and on top of Foley. Connors pushed them both on and got on, and the chopper lifted off, the mini-guns still firing._

_Bradley leaned back against the wall, his eyes looking around the chopper. Doc and the package were being treated by the chopper medical crew. Costello was dead, a blanket thrown over his body, held by one of the crew chiefs. Foley and Connors looked at him with grave expressions that he himself felt crawling on his face._

_When they got back to base, there was going to be some serious talking to._

* * *

Sergeant Bradley stared idly down at the bundle of files they had collected on the Umbrella experiments, his mind still lost in the past. He closed his eyes and sighed.

What was supposed to have been a simple mission turned into a disaster, with five Delta operators dead and one critically wounded with a bullet piercing his lung. The civilians, probably a hundred, were killed in a mass genocide by Iraqi Guardsman that had committed suicide with them. Sergeant Kimball and his team were never found by the others; they were still, to this day, missing in action, their whereabouts known only to the Maker. The politician survived, but was in critical care until the end of the war. Command was not happy, to say the least, and one way or another, everyone lost.

For Bradley, that had meant the end of his days as an officer.

For Arnold, that had meant the end of their four-year friendship.

And for his team, it had been a loss of innocence.

"Hey."

He did not look up as Connors sat on the desk next to his sergeant, his machine gun again strapped to his shoulders. He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Jonesey and Foley are getting the last of the gear together for the road back," he told him. "I'm only hoping those zombie fuckers leave us alone for a little while longer while we get the hell out of here."

The sergeant nodded. They had been down in those labs for hours, scrounging up all the information on the Umbrella research that they could find. Five bundles of files, three floppy-A disks and seven flash drives later, they had everything they needed; virus types, background information, subject records, history reports, the whole nine yards. Now they were getting ready to go back out the way they had come; they were just going to take one last look around to make sure they had everything they needed.

"Something on you mind, Boss?" the gunner asked.

Bradley shrugged.

"Just thinking about that factory," he said.

Connors frowned, but after a moment realized what he was talking about. He let out a sigh that was mixed with a bitter chuckle.

"Yeah...boy, we made a mess out of that one, didn't we?" he questioned.

"No kidding. We were damn lucky to get out of that one in one piece."

"Jonesey was damn lucky he got to sit that one out."

"Costello and the others weren't as much..."

Connors nodded. "You miss 'em?"

"Every day. Every single day..."

"Yeah...same here..."

They sat in silence for a while, thinking of their dead comrades. Connors looked back up.

"Why you thinking about it now?" he asked.

Bradley shrugged again. "With everything that's going on, just hard not to think about it. I never really allowed myself to think about it after that whole deal. Just suited up and prepared to go...even though after Desert Storm, all we did was get benched."

He looked up at his gunner. "You ever really think about all of it?"

Connors sighed. "All I know is that some nights I wake up in a cold sweat 'cause I still hear those people's screams...innocent women and kids, getting killed 'cause some stupid fucks had a death wish...if I had just gotten there sooner-"

"Mickey, what's done is done. Okay? You were not at fault, you did everything you could."

"But it wasn't good enough..."

There was no response to that. It was just the fact of war. You could be the best soldier ever, have the best training, make the best decisions, and still get killed. You could pull off the best job ever, and still some lives would slip through your fingers. There was no way to be perfect in war; all you could do was make the mistakes as small as possible. And sometimes, even THAT was not enough.

CRASH!

"Hey, _fuck_, cracka! What the fuck you doing in here, man?!"

"I was just checking something out, I wasn't gonna set the damn thing off!"

Bradley and Connors looked up, out the door and into the other room; the room where all the nuclear devices were stored. They got up to check it out themselves.

Foley and Jones were standing by one of the devices. Foley had clearly been looking at one of the detonators.

"I was thinking, if we really were gonna blow a hole through that wall to get out of here, one of these bad boys might come in handy!" he defended.

"What, and blow up half the city up while we're at it? What if there ARE other survivors, man? We just gonna wipe them out too? Not to mention we'd get blown to kingdom come as well!"

"Well shit, man, you're the damn bomb expert! Can't you find a way to defuse the reactor and just give us an explosive?"

Jones just gave his team leader an exasperated look. Bradley, however, was eying the nuke with a thoughtful look.

"That doesn't sound like a bad idea," he stated. "Jonesey, defuse the reactor and pack the charge and the detonator. One of those had a blast radius of, what, a couple football fields?"

"At least three, but you're not serious, are you?" asked Jones.

"I dunno, man, I think Foley's got a point for once," Connors piped up.

The demolitions expert just sighed.

"Fine, I can defuse the reactor here, but getting the charge to cooperate is gonna take a little time, and frankly Sarge, I'd rather spend the next forty-eight hours ABOVE ground than another two minutes down in this shit can."

"Fine," the sergeant nodded. "Take the charge and work on it on our way out. Foley, Connors, wrap up any stuff we found down here, and let's get the hell out. We're rolling out in ten, clear?"

"Roger that."

"Then let's move."

* * *

An hour later, they were back in front of the police station, the sun on the rising section of the sky. Just seeing the open sky again, for the weary members of Delta One, was as much a relief as the fresh air they were breathing. They were free, and away from the restraints of the labs. They were back in the fight.

"Well, we made it out in one piece," Foley said, as they began walking away from the building.

"Yeah," agreed Connors, "and we didn't even have to blow anything up-"

BOOM!

At that moment, the station, reacting from the self-destruct system from the laboratory (where Leon Kennedy and Claire Redfield were making their escape from the city), exploded into a sky-high ball of fire. When the dust and fire settled, the entire building was deformed and coming down.

The four operators just stared at it for a moment, then back at each other, then back at the wreck.

"Um...it was already like this when we got here?" Foley suggested.

"I didn't see anything if you didn't," Connors nodded.

* * *

It was another half hour that they walked as they traveled through the park when Jones stopped again.

"Shotgun count is pretty low," he admitted.

"Why the hell didn't you get any back at the station?" demanded Connors angrily.

"I DID, motherfucker. There weren't that many to choose from. Seems shotgun ammo was the one brand they DIDN'T have in large supply."

"Well, hell, no problem. There's some right here."

Foley slung his rifle over his shoulder and made his way to a lone police car parked on the grass. Bradley looked at it, suddenly on the defense. Every window and windshield in the car was splattered with blood, and all of it was on the INSIDE; the inside that Foley was now leaning halfway through.

Yeah, we got a few shells on this guy here...by the looks of him, he ain't gonna need them no more...lemme just check his gun real quick like-"

"Foley, MOVE!"

Bradley yanked Foley out just as the man in the driver's seat sprung to life and bit into the man's arm. Foley screamed and pulled away, throwing both him and his sergeant to the ground. Connors and Jones rushed up to them; Connors removed his knife from his sheath and jammed it into the zombie's brain.

"_Jesus! I'm dead! I'm fucking dead! It got me!"_ Foley screamed as Jones examined the spot where the zombie had sunk its teeth.

"Oh calm down, you damned fool," said Jones with a laugh. "All he did was take a bite out of your jacket."

He lifted the sniper's uniform for him to see for himself. There was a chunk missing from his sleeve, but other than that, there was not a scratch on him. Foley looked like he was about to faint, then glared at Jones.

"Next time, get your own damn ammo," he grumbled, getting back onto his feet.

"Yeah, great, he's fine. Can we go now?" Connors asked.

"Alright, ladies," Bradley ordered. "Saddle up, let's roll."

And so they moved out again, just as cautiously as before. Bradley knew he had just gotten lucky there with Foley. He had sworn, long ago, that a man would not die under his command. That had been when he was younger, more foolish. Men died in war, and that was inevitable, and there was not a damn thing a man could do about it...except minimize the casualties as best he could.

And sometimes, all he could do was pray.

* * *

Alright, before I end this chapter off, I want to state a few things.

The main one being where I'm going with the rest of this story.

I haven't posted a chapter of Another Side Another Nightmare in over a year for a number of reasons. The main one was not knowing where I wanted this chapter to go. I knew I wanted it to be about Delta One, and I knew I wanted it to explain why Bradley lost his officer status, but I was missing a good story for it. This chapter went through many many drafts before it hit this one that, for me, as the writer, works perfectly. Most of you will disagree with me. In fact, most will criticize my lack of accuracy in Delta tactics and weaponry, and the inaccurate way I portrayed the Gulf War. With the exception of Ashen Tallaveran and a couple others, there are some who's comments are neither appreciated nor are they helpful.

And I can't just sit by and leave it to review replies anymore.

I am not a goddam expert on Delta. What information I know, I gather from the book and movie _Black Hawk Down_, and from other sources that I have looked up. And not all of it is accurate. But the fact that I put some amount of research into something that I have invested over two years of work into should at least count for something. And yet I still get the reviews labeling every inaccuracy I make. Let me clarify something.

Another Side Another Nightmare was the first story I submitted onto this site. Though this is the revised edition, this story started my career on here, and that means a hell of a lot to me. In the last year it has taken me to write this chapter, I have explored every possible path to take this story, and I will continue to pursue it. I'm even starting to think up a sequel, though that's not for a long time coming. This story will continue, despite whatever criticism it gets, because I love the story, I love the characters, and as the writer, the only real opinions I should care about is that of my own and my close friends.

So, no one else has the balls to tell you this, but I do.

If you're gonna continue to focus on my lack of knowledge and continue to point out the negatives without any tips on how I may be able to improve, can you just get the fuck out of here? Please, just go. Go read something else and don't waste any more time here.

I appreciate every hit and review that I get.

But when I get five reviews from five different people all commenting on the same damn thing I get just a tiny bit pissed.

So put up or shut up, but I'm done listening and responding to it.

Consider this my last statement on the matter.

Okay, with that said-

This chapter kind of is the turning point for the rest of the story. From here on in, we get to know the enemy side as well as the Delta side. We get to see who the main bad guys are, and who the real downright villains are. One may have already been revealed in this chapter (read very carefully). But things are about to evolve now.

The events in Iraq in this story do not reflect upon any actual events that may or may not have happened in Operation Desert Storm. The setting and characters are entirely fictitious and are entitled for story purposes only. I do not mean to offend or upset anyone.

The nuclear device thing may be true or may be false. I don't know. I believe I've read where you can make one harmless and use it as a regular explosive, so I went with that.

Yes, I know they never encountered Leon and Claire. Just go with it. They could have all been down there at the same time and never knew it. It's possible.

And yes, the cop car IS the same one from Chapter One. I told one of you it would be coming back, and here it is.

I think that's all I wanted to say.

Sorry if I seem like an asshole. I'm really a pleasant person to know. But when I keep getting bombarded with the same shit, I get very annoyed very fast. Patience is a virtue that I, for the most part, severely lack.

But anyway, leave a review (if you aren't thrown off already by my somewhat angry rant above), and I will post a new chapter in due time.

Later, everyone.


	18. Black Ops

And here is Chapter Eighteen.

This one was pretty fun and simple to get done, which I always like with a chapter.

Read and you'll see why I like it...or maybe not. I dunno, I'm weird.

Anyhoo, enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: Black Ops.

There was one thing that Hannigan hated more than anything else in the world, and that was the walking dead.

As he stood on the other side of the barbed-wired electric fence, watching the zombies claw and bite despite the few thousand volts of electricity that was pounding through them, he could not quite keep the shiver from crawling up his spine. Even after nine years with Umbrella, the sight of the undead ghouls scared him witless, though now it was easier to hide than it was back then.

These fences were all that prevented the zombies from getting into the stone gray warehouse that he and his company had set up as a headquarters. By themselves they were nothing, but the electricity helped to strengthen it, if only a little. So far, the masses had been unsuccessful in pushing the fence down, so that had to count for something.

He shuddered again. The damn things were relentless in their drive for human flesh. It was not even a rational drive; they did not do it because they were hungry, they just DID it. Dr. Isaacs always said that it was their instincts to eat, not because they actually needed the substance. That fact right there was mind-boggling to him. If all their thoughts and instincts were solely focused on their next meal, that made them nonnegotiable, uncontrollable, death machines. Monsters.

He turned away from them, looking instead at his two guards. The two Frenchmen, Pierre and Louis, were armed with two-shell rifles and looked extremely nervous. They were twins, almost identical except for their colored eyes; one was a light blue, the other dark green. They were two of the newest to the company; as such, they were put on perimeter guard detail.

"Do rounds around the building once an hour, on the hour," he ordered them in his gruff voice. "Any breaches, anywhere, I want to know about them immediately."

They both nodded and went off on their rounds. Hannigan watched them go and then proceeded back to the building, not giving the zombies another glance.

Thirty-two years of life should have been all he needed to know how the world worked. But nine years of the Umbrella Corporation had proved that there was no way to know the world. The captain with the curly blonde hair and the dark eyes touched the scar running down his face gingerly, remembering that near brush on his first mission, when that Hunter had ambushed him. He had been foolish back then; he was not so anymore.

Now he was Umbrella's captain, strong and fast and able to carry out an order without question and yet still retain his own thoughts and opinions. He could take orders and give them out, but common sense still prevailed in a tough situation where orders might just get him killed. He had a whole company of men that he had to be responsible for and so he had to lead by the best example possible.

He lowered his hands to his sides. This mission had been a particularly tough one so far, especially the last couple of hours. The zombies had been closing in, groups getting larger and larger, and he had had to put down a few of his men. The other B.O.W.s were just as bad, if not ten times worse. Seemed like with every victory, there came a price.

And Delta. They were proving to be a bigger pain in the ass. Hannigan had initially thought that, with all of them being separated like they were, it would have been easy. But out of the five known teams, so far they had only found two, and though they had laid waste to them, it had not been without some noticeable casualties to themselves. The other three, so far, had not turned up on their radar, and finding them in this apocalyptic city was like trying to find a piece of hay in a needle stack.

Which is why they had called in some help.

"Sir."

Hannigan looked up as Lieutenant Spinelli approached him. The lieutenant was taller and broad-shouldered, but had a younger look to his face. He had not been in the unit as long, and had been made an officer only through his training and his intelligence. He was a good platoon leader, and so far, his casualties had not been as numerous. He was raw, though, and that was the main problem.

"Yeah, what?"

"Sorry, captain, but the new team has arrived, and the team leader is asking for you," said Spinelli.

Hannigan nodded. It was a Special Ops team, the last to be sent in for this operation. The leader was supposed to be an expert on the Delta Force, on how they worked, how they fought. After that last battle, it became apparent that they were going to need a better strategy. So he got called in. Hannigan personally did not know if he was trustworthy or not, but they needed the help, so he had no choice.

"Let's go get him, then," he said.

Spinelli nodded, taking his place at his right hand, the usual position for the second-in-command. They moved into the factory, to the roof, to meet with their new comrade in hopes that he would help them.

--------------------------------------------

"How long do we have to wait in here? I want to get out of here."

Wolf leaned against the wall of the target area, looking down at the targets that were being riddled with bullets. It was all they had had to shoot at since arriving here, and he, a six-year veteran, was getting tired of it. The biggest man on the team, he had gray hair and a gray-black beard, and a pair of shades that he carried around in a case in his pocket and wore in the downtime. It was something that helped him mellow out, and as odd as it sounded, they did help.

Like Hannigan, Wolf knew how to take and give out orders, but also kept his own mind. He had been in service in Vietnam, as regular infantry, and was wounded three times. Most of his family was now either dead or lost for all intents and purposes, and since joining with Umbrella, he never gave them much thought. He had only a sergeant, was only a mere squad leader, but the men still looked up to him and the officers still listened to what he had to say.

He angrily kicked the ground. Those Delta guys had taken a beating earlier, and yet they still tagged a bunch of their guys as well. Now, instead of hunting them down, they were cooped up in here, waiting for the next big thing to happen.

"Can't believe Hannigan's making us wait this shit out," he grumbled.

Standing at the counter, aiming his rifle down-range, Radzinsky looked over his shoulder at the other man. A dwarf-sized man, he had balding black hair and small beard and was always chewing a stick of gum. A horrible shot with a firearm, he was mostly assigned to guard and reconnaissance jobs. He was a city boy who had been drafted when he was on death row for mass murder in Pakistan.

"No kidding," he said, slapping a new clip into his M-4. "I came here to fight, not to sit around shooting cans."

"Like you can even hit them," Wolf declared.

"Fuck off."

"Why are we waiting, anyway? Anyone think to ask the captain?"

Mendez shifted in his seat, which was a wood box that was an empty ammo container. A thin, ordinary-looking man, he had shaggy hair that was just under the regulation and a full beard that was weeks-old. He was a more recent arrival, having transferred in from a National Guard division to work at the Umbrella Corporation. He was born from hippy parents, and the upbringing gave him a habit of growing weed back at the barracks with his shirt off and a bandanna around his head.

"Word is, we're getting a new Spec-Ops team sent to us," said Wolf, shaking his head. "If all we really needed was someone who knew what the fuck he was doing, I would have been out in the city by now."

Grier laughed and clapped his hands together. He was a tall black man from the south, with a thin goatee and a bald head that he wore the black U.B.C.S hat over. He was the demolitions expert, and a good one at that, with God-like abilities over the explosives and an ability to know whether one were going to go off or if it was in stand-by. When they were not on duty, he was always seen playing his harmonica, keeping their spirits up with the cheery tunes and riffs he would play.

"Spec-Ops? How come?" asked Mendez.

"Hell if I know."

As Wolf said this, O'Reilly cleared his throat. He was the youngest at just eighteen, a drop-out from school, with a big forehead and large round glasses perched on his nose. He was also the platoon's clerk and radio operator, and was in constant contact with the captain and with command. He claimed to know everything that was going on, and he probably did, but the older men- Wolf especially- looked at him with utmost scorn.

"Captain Hannigan said that the team leader was former Delta," he piped up in his annoying young voice that made one want to snap his throat. "He wants his expertise on this mission."

It made sense. Their soldiers dealt more with zombies and other B.O.W.s; they were not trained to deal with other soldiers. If this guy was from Delta, it might make it easier to hunt them down.

The problem with Spec-Ops, though, was that they considered themselves to be better than the ordinary U.B.C.S troops. They did not openly brag about it, but they just had that air of superiority over them. Wolf and the others were infantry, grunts. The Spec-Ops did all the big jobs. They were supposedly "the best".

Yeah, well, if they were the best, then why was the city covered in zombies? If they were the best, then why did they allow the T-Virus to be spread across the city? It was no secret that if they had just apprehended Birkin, gotten the virus samples and cleared out, none of them would be here having do deal with a Class 3 outbreak. Sergeant Hoss and the other Spec-Ops, however, refused to believe that they fucked up.

"Alright, everyone, gather around!"

The harsh tone of Sergeant Pryce called the rest of the platoon together. The other platoon sergeants were calling the other platoons together as well. Something was going on.

Wolf, Radzinsky, Mendez, Grier and O'Reilly got their weapons and fell in to the A Platoon gathering. Pryce cleared his throat. The sergeant was a short, buff man that fit the role of a platoon sergeant just fine. He was in green tank top and combat pants, a shaved head of gray and a mouth of crooked teeth. He had a heart tattoo on his upper right arm and a laughing devil on his upper left arm. He was another soldier who had been drafted out of death row into the Umbrella Corporation, though what he did they never did learn.

"Alright, listen up!" he shouted. "Spec-Ops team is here, and after we hand them what we know, we're moving out. C Squad is going to be with me, in on the briefing. Everyone else is going to start loading up ammo and grenades into the trucks. Let's move!"

Wolf felt a rush of adrenaline surge through him. Finally. About time. The green light had been flicked on. The reason they were in on the briefing was because they were the shock squad. If there was trouble, it would hit them first.

Also joining them were two of the squad leaders, Sergeants Higgins and Laurent. They were also old members to the team, though not as old as Wolf. Higgins was a thin, mid-height man from Ireland, had light brown hair under the U.B.C.S cap and blue eyes. His specialty, along with leading the A Squad, was with heavy weaponry; whether it be a M-249 or an M-240, he was right at home with machine guns.

Laurent was from Ghana, Africa, and was the leader of the B Squad. He had black skin, and long hair that was pulled back in a ponytail. He also had brown eyes and the whitest teeth Wolf had ever seen on a man. Like Wolf, Laurent was an expert marksman, and preferred a Dragunov over an M-4.

The rest of the platoon grabbed their weapons and went to stand on the lift leading to the upper part of the warehouse. The warehouse had two floors; the main floor with several storerooms used by every day workers, and then there was the floor about a hundred feet down, where intelligence, training, and grouping rooms were located. The elevator and one single hidden passageway were the only way to connect the two floors, so if one or both got blocked, they were on their own. Still, it was the only way for them to plan and prepare in secret, without any spies or civilians hearing them.

And with this job, they would have to maintain absolute secrecy, lest everything fall apart.

--------------------------------------------

The helicopter lowered onto the roof's helipad gracefully, landing on its wheels without even bouncing. Hannigan watched as the pilot turn the bird off, the rotors slowing their rotation before finally ceasing. Then the hatch door slid open and the six men of the Special Forces Team Foxtrot hopped out.

All six of them were tall, six feet or taller, and all of them thin and well-muscled. They all wore the black Spec-Ops suits, including the gas masks over their faces. In their hands, they clutched M-4s customized with scopes, silencers, laser-targeting, and an M-203 grenade launcher on the barrel on the one held by their leader, one of the taller of the group. They walked in a bunched group, shoulders back, chests out, all completely proud of what they were doing.

They walked up to the U.B.C.S captain, and the team leader pulled off his mask.

His face was normal; no scars, no war wounds, nothing. His eyes were blue-green, ones that had seen a lot but still retained some kind of innocence, though of what kind was uncertain. His nose was small and sharp, fitting perfectly on his face. His face had two or three days of gray scruff, which blended in with his brown-gray hair. The man must have been in his late thirties, early forties, and yet one could tell he had lost no edge, no skill in his years of combat. He was a machine; he was a killer, born and bred.

He snapped off a quick salute, but did not wait for Hannigan to return it. The captain took no offense; these men had been trained to act as individuals, not under a chain of command. Saluting was probably the limit they would subject themselves too. He returned it just as quick and got down to business.

"Sergeant..." He glanced at the roster, "Kimball, I presume."

"Yeah," the man answered in a gruff voice. "You the captain in charge?"

"Captain Hannigan, that's correct," Hannigan answered. "Let's get you and your men inside, Sergeant, so we can get down to business."

Kimball said nothing, just nodded to his men and proceeded inside after the captain.

The lower levels were twice the size of the floor above them, as this was where they lived when they were not awaiting transport or orders above. The lift area was one large white room, and a door led to a still larger one. Several pathways cut to many different cave-like areas, some dead ends where they made their camps, others to outside passages that, aside from the biggest one, they blocked off. Further down there was the labs and the briefing rooms, and was also where the majority of their weapons and ammunitions resided. This small, civilized collection of offices would be their last stand if there was ever a breach; they would either escape to the outside or die depending on this one consolidation of small rooms.

Hannigan led them down into the factory and down to the lower levels and into, where Wolf and the rest of the men were waiting. The men looked up at the new arrivals, and the captain could see some resentment in their faces, Wolf's especially. The grizzled sergeant was leaning against the side wall, arms folded, his eyes locked on Kimball, who paid him no attention.

Hannigan took him and the team to the table, where pictures, bios, and reports lay in five separate piles, one after the other in a row, in the center of the table. Kimball calmly looked at all of them, glancing at the names of the team leaders at the front of each pile. Then he turned to the captain.

"Alright, so what's the exact situation?" he asked.

"We know there are five Delta teams spread out in the city," Hannigan gently moved the piles down and rolled the map of the city out. The map was covered in red markings, circles and crossed-off x's. "Unfortunately, we've been searching for almost forty-eight hours and we've still only encountered two of them. A UBCF report indicates they came across a third, but they disappeared after destroying one of their convoys."

"Which one?"

"We're assuming this one," he passed forward the file for the Delta Five team. Kimball looked it over, then smirked.

"Ah, yeah...Sanderson..." he shook his head. "Only he would survive a Little Bird crash like that."

Hannigan frowned. "You already know about that?"

"Yeah," the sergeant thumbed towards one of his men. "Blame it on Amir. One of Sanderson's men owed him a lot of money when we were stationed together, never paid him."

"That was you? You shot that bird down?" Wolf demanded. Radzinsky's eyes bulged.

"Like I said, a little pay-back." Kimball showed no pity for his former compatriots as he returned to the folders. "Sanderson may be an issue to get a hold of; he and his men are used to being in the shadows. They're like ghosts on the field. You're going to have a hell of a time finding them."

"Great," muttered Wolf. Pryce held up his hand to silent him.

"Who were the two you guys found?" was Kimball's next question.

"Delta Two, commanded by a Sergeant Waters, and Delta Three, commanded by a Sergeant Arnold."

Again, the files were passed to the Special Forces soldier for him to glance over. Kimball looked down at the Delta Three file and again smirked.

"Sam Arnold...he _would_ be a lot easier to find," he said. "The man's not a coward; he'll go straight for the heart of the battle. Not surprising he'd be first on the list."

"His convoy sustained massive damage caused by my men," Hannigan replied with. "They were last reported attempting to leave the city. Under U.S. Jurisdiction we have no choice but to let them return to their base."

"It doesn't matter," Kimball answered. "He'll be back. If there are men still out in the field, he won't sit it out. He'll crawl back in himself if it meant bringing the rest back home."

"The classic American hero," exclaimed Wolf.

"Exactly." The Spec-Op sergeant finally looked up at Wolf with a smirk. "Guts and glory. Leave no man behind."

He looked back at the files.

"Now, this Waters character...I'm unfamiliar with him. He must be a relatively newcomer."

"Reports are saying this is his team's first real mission."

"That may or may not make it easy. New guys are usually predictable, follow the same paths, make the same moves. With Delta, though, it's never the same. Training and common sense are usually a part of any operator, and all that 'fight for your country' bullshit usually goes out the window. Some operators will act like raw recruits, openly boasting they're the best, but in the field, they're absolutely serious."

The way he spoke of them, Hannigan would never even know Kimball had been with Delta. He talked with all the knowledge one would have on the unit, but he also spoke as though the men were just acquaintances, not old friends. But maybe that was all they had been to them. Maybe he had been the one soldier in the unit that was separate from all the rest, who had not gotten attached to the men he had worked with,

"Now, the final two?" Kimball pulled the two remaining bundles towards him.

"We've yet to come across the last two," answered the captain. "Surveillance pictures from spy ordinance sent images back, so we cross-checked them and got identities back. Delta Eight, commanded by Sergeant Horan-"

"Another new team. Issue same protocols as the other one."

"-And Delta One, commanded by Sergeant Bradley."

Here, Kimball froze. He glanced through the file quickly, pausing over each name and face, scanning the brief descriptions. His smirk grew.

"Connors...Jones...Foley...and Bradley..." he slid the file back. "Yeah, good luck with them."

Hannigan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Delta One's a crack team. All of them are Desert Storm veterans, all of them have been with the unit for a decade. During their years as an assault team they successfully completed ninety-five percent of their assignments. They know everything that the other teams know and more. But above all, there's one thing they have that none of the others have."

"And what would that be?"

"Luck." Kimball smiled openly at the men. "In ten years on the force, they were never wounded; hardly ever a scratch. They were captured more than once and they got away both times with minor wounds, just beatings. Those four have escaped from more situations than any other team on the force."

Wolf snorted. Luck was just something someone used as an excuse. If someone had the proper training and determination, then they could get by with minor casualties. There was no such thing as luck.

"Bradley and his team should be simple to find, but taking them out is going to be difficult. All the Desert Storm soldiers will be. Don't underestimate them."

"So where do we start, _Master_?" Wolf asked sarcastically, ignoring the look Pryce gave him.

"Be patient. We have numbers in our favor, but numbers don't make a battle. Have each platoon study these files, get acquainted with each team, study how each one works, and have them set up their battle plans. We're not going to have much longer before this town gets nuked."

At this, every other man in the room shifted nervously, glancing around at the other man for confirmation. Even Hannigan was taken aback at the news. They had not received word that there was going to be termination of the city. Isaacs had not told them this, and neither had any of the other Umbrella officials.

But then again, as he thought about it, it made sense. They all knew that this outbreak was one that could not be contained. They all knew that it would eventually shoot right through the walls, if they were not careful. Nuclear destruction would be the safest way to deal with the threat, even if it was an extreme one.

The big question was, would they be out of here by then?

"When are they planning on dropping the bombs?" he asked.

"Who knows?" Kimball shrugged. "Could be five days; could be in five hours. I'm just trying to see all of the options before I make a mistake."

"Alright." Hannigan turned to the rest of his men. "Have each and every man look at the reports and come up with a strategy. Make it go as fast as you can; we don't have much time."

Pryce, Hannigan and Laurent nodded and ushered the rest of the men out of the room. Wolf went grudgingly, his eyes never leaving the Special Forces sergeant, who again was refusing to look up at him. He instead glanced up at Hannigan, sharing that look that only two acting commanders would give; a look that they alone knew how serious this situation was going to get.

The rules had changed. They had a time limit now. They knew the higher ups would not tell them; they were, after all, expendable. That did not mean they could not finish their objectives and be out of there within the allowed time limit, however long it may be. They would get it done. How hard could it be?

"Alright." Hannigan nodded and stalked out after his men.

Alone with his team, Kimball glanced at the files. Some of the men he knew, and some were brand new to him, but they all had the same thing in common: Delta. They all came from the same roots. They all had the same kind of training. And he had more of it. It was obvious who would win this fight.

They would pay for abandoning him there...leaving him to die in that godforsaken hellhole. They would suffer for letting him slip through their fingers and into Umbrella's.

_Now,_ he thought, picking up and opening the service file of Sergeant Thomas Horan, _let's see if we can't find these guys..._

* * *

The door to the apartment burst open. Owens side-stepped in, SAW at the ready, M-21 strapped to his back, looking around quickly before signaling for the others.

Mabrey came behind him, supporting Sergeant Waters with his right arm. The sergeant was pale, sweating, his head lobbing from side to side. He had gone forty-three minutes on the streets, but with his wound he could go no further. They needed to dress it and then get some much-needed rest.

"Clean off the bed," the medic told the sniper. "Give him some room."

"I'm fine," Waters insisted, "I'm okay..."

"No, you're not. That bullet cracked your shoulder plate, and if we don't dress it, you're not going to be able to move your arm at all. Now sit down and let me dress it."

Waters reluctantly obeyed, finding the irony in that it was Mabrey now giving the orders instead of himself. But when a man is wounded, that's how it went.

"Alright, now," Mabrey tore his uniform around the wound open, "let's get a better look at this."

The bullet had lodged itself in the plate, digging itself right in. There were cracks forming around the wound. Mabrey looked up at Owens.

"See if you can find some hooch," he told him. "So I can pour it on the wound and make this somewhat tolerable."

"Yeah." Owens placed the SAW against the wall and walked into the kitchen.

Mabrey looked around the room. It was an average apartment, probably one you would expect your grandmother to live in. There was china on a shelf nailed to the wall in a neat row, and there were little glass-crafted dolls in a glass cupboard below it. The room smelled of cats. There were pictures of children on the walls, and the medic had to wonder, where were they? Did they escape, or were they out there among the zombies?

"Found it." Owens came back, holding a glass bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. "It was far back in the rack. Still unopened."

He handed the bottle to Mabrey, who cracked the lid off and poured some of it onto his hands. He then poured some onto the wound, carefully, gently. Waters squeezed his eyes shut and let out a yell.

"Sorry, Sarge," said the doc as he sprinkled a little gin on the blade as well, "but it's just to make this easier."

"If it were meant to be easy, they would have invented it so that humans wouldn't be SHOT," Waters said through gritted teeth.

The next thing he knew, he was half screaming, half grunting as Mabrey dug his knife into the open wound, clawing at the bullet. It was like someone had lit it on fire with a flamethrower, and it was worse than actually being shot. He bit his tongue until he actually tasted blood, and felt as though he would have bitten entirely through when Mabrey stopped digging, holding the blood-stained bullet up between his fingers.

"Jesus Christ," he whistled. "Heavy caliber round, I'm amazed it didn't pass clear through your arm."

He sulfured the would and then pulled out a compress bandage and wrapped it over the hole. "Now you're gonna be in a hell of a lot of pain over the next few days, but you should be okay as long as you don't move it too much. Think you can do that?"

"Doesn't look that way." Waters' voice sounded like his namesake, he was in so much pain.

"Well, you've gotta try. All I can give you right now is some Percocet to relax and get some sleep. We're gonna rest here for a while and let you get your strength back."

"We can't rest...gotta find the others..."

"If we're not going anywhere, I doubt they are either," he handed the sergeant the medicine and his canteen. "Drink up, we'll keep an eye out."

Waters took the cup reluctantly and drank it slowly, carefully. After just three sips, he began to feel the effects, and by the time the cup was half gone so was half his consciousness. He placed the cup down and lay on his stomach, the throbbing in his back beginning to finally subside as the effects of the sedative took hold.

He could hear his men speaking to each other, but with his eyes closed, all he could do was listen to their words.

"What do you think we're going to do?" he heard Owens ask.

He heard Mabrey sigh.

"I don't know," he said, "at this point it's hard to tell what the hell we're supposed to do. It's almost day three and we've used up most of our ammo-"

"Not to mention one of our men."

There was a pause in the conversation.

"Sorry...didn't mean to say it like that..."

"No, it's alright. I was thinking the same thing."

"Just hard to believe...I thought Ski would make it through for sure-"

"We let our guard down, man. We can't let it happen again."

There was another pause, with only the sounds of Mabrey's work filling his ears. Then Owens chuckled.

"I'll tell you, man...back home in Compton, no one would ever believe this shit," he said.

"Yeah, I know. No one in Pelham would believe it, either. My mother would insist I be discharged on the belief all I was doing was smoking the grass."

"What does your ma think you're doing, anyway?"

"She thinks I'm working some hospital over in Fort Wayne. You know, surgeon stuff. It's probably what I'm going to do when I leave the unit."

"That's cool. Better than what I told my pa."

"Why, what you tell him?"

"Motor pool."

Both of them laughed.

"Really? He thinks you're working the motor pool? Doesn't he know that segregation is over?"

"Yeah, he knows. But it's all he expects of me, y'know? I wasn't exactly the brightest kid in the family back home..."

The room went silent again there, an awkward pause.

"Sorry, I shouldn't be talking about this, it's personal."

"Well, if it were up to me, I'd let your dad know his son was one of the best snipers in our unit."

"...You mean that?"

"Hell yeah."

There was another pause.

"Hey, Mabrey."

"Yeah?"

"That contest we were having...forget about it, it was a stupid thing to do."

"Yeah...can't really find much pleasure in having the best rifle when any rifle would be welcome right about now."

"Fresh ammo, too. And a good pair of hands to hold it."

"Definitely."

There was another pause, and this time Waters almost felt his consciousness leave him entirely. Then Owens asked the question he himself had been wondering.

"What if they don't come back for us? What if we're all that's left?"

It was the dreading thought they all felt; that they, the three of them, were all that remained of their Delta unit.

"Well then we're shit out of luck, I guess," responded Mabrey after some time had passed. "But we've got to hang in there. Delta Three's going to come back. We're going to make it home."

That last thought went through Waters' mind as he finally passed into a state of sleep. And though it was not entirely pleasant, it allowed for the hopeful thought that help was on the way, that they would find their friends, and they would all finally go home.

* * *

So yeah, that's really it for this chapter. I like it because I like writing villains, it just feels like fun.

Enjoy.


	19. The Kids

Chapter Nineteen is here and rolling.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Nineteen: The Kids

Jim could not help but stare at the two Delta operators as one of them scribbled on his helmet with a yellow highlighter and the other read a magazine he had found laying around. Both were so amazingly calm despite the current crisis, and he could not understand how they could remain so mellow.

The one called Bielski, a short man with blonde hair from Kentucky, was reading an issue of "Raccoon City Monthly", scratching behind his ear every couple of pages. He looked like he was close to passing out, but Jim had learned that the man was more alert than the others. An hour ago, he had looked over and the operator had his eyes closed and looked fast asleep. He waved his hand over his face to check, then out of curiosity picked up his rifle to examine it when Bielski, his eyes still closed, said "Don't touch that, I just cleaned it."

Scared the hell out of the poor kid.

The other one, Shipley, was quiet for the most part, but put forth his two cents from time to time. He was also from Kentucky, shaved-head and stern-faced, and was an expert marksman with his long-barreled rifle. One random thing that he did was that whenever there was a break in their journey, he would take off his helmet, pull out his marker, and write something down on it. To Jim, it just made no sense.

"What the hell are you doing?" Travis finally decided to ask, after some time of watching him do this.

"Writing down names," Shipley answered, not looking up from his work.

"His lady's pregnant," Bielski explained, also not glancing up from his magazine. "Due in another month or so. Right before we were deployed out here, she told him to think up as many names for the kid as he could. So he writes them all down on his helmet so he doesn't forget any."

"She's making a list of her own, too," his friend chimed in. "And when I get back, we're gonna size up our ideas and pick the ones we like best. Then we'll see which name he fits in to when we finally see him."

"Or her," Bielski added.

"Or her," Shipley agreed.

Sergeant Sanderson smirked as he tore open a bag of chips and bit one in half. He crunched on that for a bit before popping in the other half and then swallowing them both down with some water from his canteen.

The sergeant was a different matter. Graying in the hair, he was a tough attitude guy from Chicago. He was rarely ever at ease or of a caring nature towards them. Of Anna, he had all the patience in the world for, but the two boys, not as much. He was tough-as-nails and always had a grim demeanor, yet according to their two snipers, he was the best sergeant in their division.

The final soldier, Hallings, was keeping an eye out on the windows and door, his hands on his machine-gun, ready to fire. He was the latest of the four, and also the youngest at twenty-five, with chestnut brown hair and a boyish face. He got scared easily, but that was usually because something had not gone according to plan. If everything was on task and on time, he was calm as a grasshopper; if something went wrong, he panicked.

"Hallings," Sanderson called out, "any chatter?"

"Still nothing," Hallings reported. "All quiet, Sarge."

"What else is new?" Shipley asked, sticking the helmet back on his head. "Damn thing hasn't worked since we dropped, why's it gonna work now?."

"It hasn't?" asked Travis.

"Why the hell do you think we haven't called in for support? It's because we can't. Radio's been dead the entire time we've been down here."

Anna and Jim exchanged looks. When they said they had not had radio contact with the other teams, they figured it was because they were just did not have the service...or the other teams were dead. But then again, the fact that they had not used the radio to let anyone know that they had three kids with them should have been a dead giveaway.

"So we're stuck down here?" Travis exclaimed, suddenly alarmed.

"We're going to make our way out on foot," Sanderson interjected before Shipley could respond. "If we find motor transportation, we'll take that. But we're going to make it out of here. All of us. Alright?"

Jim nodded hesitantly, but Anna could see the gears in his mind spinning. Jimmy's main priority was his own life, and keeping himself safe. If trouble happened- and she was certain it would-, he would make a run for it, hide, anything to ensure his survival. He was loyal, sure, but his loyalty would only take him so far.

Shipley tapped his helmet once on its top and threw a grin at Travis's direction, who returned it hesitantly. Travis, on the other hand, spent his concerns on games and drugs and who knew what else. He was overly friendly, but intelligence was not his strong suit. If they were hunting animals, he would probably the little squirrel that would walk curiously up to the hunter that was aiming right at him.

"Alright, let's move out before we get spotted," Sanderson ordered.

Hallings slung the radio onto his back and cradled his SAW. Bielski and Shipley grabbed their rifles and slowly pushed open the door, all ready. Jim hung back, indicating for Anna to hang back for a moment. She crossed over to him.

"Are we sure we want to take our chances here? I think I felt safer in that closet back there," he said quietly.

"Right, in the closet where we waited and hoped that a zombie wouldn't break the door down and kill us," Anna stated with arms crossed, annoyed.

"Look, you heard the guy. They don't even have a working radio. It's miles to even get to the point where we'd be near an exit out of the city, so how in the hell are we supposed to get there with a hundred thousand zombies in between here and there?"

"Well, they've got guns," Travis said as he came up. "I mean, that's better than a baseball bat and a fire poker."

"And they have the training to stay alive," added Anna. "Only the best make it into Delta, and these men have been doing this for a long time."

"If only the best make it into Delta, and our little hero made it in, then can you understand my concern?" Jim asked, arms crossed.

Travis backed away. Anna did not move, but her eyes looked dangerous.

"Don't start, Jimmy," she warned. "_I_ broke up with _him_."

"And we're going back to him?"

"Yes. We are. We have a better chance right now with him than we do by ourselves."

"Agreed." Sergeant Sanderson's voice caused all three of them to jump. Travis turned to find him right behind him, his face stern, his finger resting just above his trigger. "Now if we're done with the debate, can we please keep it moving?"

Travis bobbed his head up and down, but stayed still.

"As in NOW?" Sanderson practically had to scream to get the blonde to jump and run for the door. He glared at Jim for a moment longer before turning and going back out the door.

"Jimmy, don't argue with me. Let's just get to safety, and we'll worry about the details later." Anna turned from him and followed after the other soldiers, Jim following ever so reservedly after her.

* * *

The streets were quiet for once. No moans, no shuffling feet, not even so much as a penny dropping to the floor. That did not keep the soldiers from keeping their guard up, but Shipley and Bielski walked more easily than they had before.

"When I get outta here, first thing I'm doing is grab me a six-pack and have a good ole' party with my neighbors," Shipley said, walking backwards to keep an eye on their rear. "Not exactly the best way to celebrate surviving the apocalypse, but it's an easy one."

"Dude, when I get out of here, I'm gonna get with the missus and not come out of bed for a week, if you know what I'm saying," said Bielski with a wide smile.

"I'm personally gonna wait 'til after the little tyke is born before I have one of those, myself."

"When I get home," Hallings interjected with, "I'm going to pig out on all the junk food I've got in my house, watch re-runs of bad sitcoms, and then sleep for a month."

Pause. The two elder operators turned their heads to the younger operator, who looked back, confused.

"That's it?"demanded Bielski. "We'll have survived a zombie apocalypse that killed hundreds upon thousands, and you're just going to do what you'd do on a Saturday night?"

"Well, I'll probably have to drink myself into oblivion at some point, try and get the mental images out of my head-"

"By your lonesome, though? That's just sad, man, go hang out with your friends, your family, anyone but Jerry Springer through the tee-vo."

Hallings shrugged. "I've got no wife, no kids. Family lives miles away from me, friends all have jobs and even if they didn't, I can't really tell them I was on a special military operation in mid-west America fighting zombies, can I? No one would believe me."

"Well, why don't you come hang with us for a few days? I'll throw a party, introduce you to some of my lady friends, see what happens."

The young machine-gunner raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"

It was Bielski's turn to shrug.

"Sure, why not?" he said. "After an ordeal like this, being alone is the last thing you want to do. Not good for your well-being. Come down to Kantuck for a few days, Ship and I'll take care of you."

He slapped the young soldier on the back. Anna watched the exchange curiously. The way the soldiers interacted was interesting, how comfortable they were around each other, was different than just ordinary co-workers. The brotherhood bond that Tom had talked to her about, before he had shipped off...it really existed.

"What about you, Sarge?" Shipley wanted to know. "Any wham-bam-thank-you-m'am's in store for you when you get home?"

Sanderson said nothing. His eyes grew a hardened look, a troubled look, as he thought back to the last time he saw his wife...

_He packed his shirts and pants into his suitcase, trying to ignore the rising volume of anger growing in his wife's voice. His own level was slowly climbing, but he kept it hidden as best he could, not wanting to get into a real shouting match with her._

"_I don't understand why you have to leave," she said. "It makes no sense."_

"_I got the call to go," he replied with, "so I'm going. That's how it's always gone, you should be used to it by now."_

"_But you just got home! You haven't been home in months! And now, when I finally get to see you, you get called off again to go fight in some Lord-forsaken country overseas-"_

"_It's in America," he corrected. "Some little town out west. And it's just a peace-keeping mission-"_

"_And that's supposed to make everything better?! You're supposed to be on your vacation! Why can't you ever take off any time for us-?"_

"_And this is MY fault?!" He turned around and drew himself to his full hight, finally losing it. "Right, it's ALWAYS my fault, whenever they call me up to go do MY JOB, it's ALWAYS my fault! Go ahead, blame me, it's ALWAYS MY FUCKING FAULT!"_

_She stepped back. She hated it when they fought, and he hated it too, and they both especially hated fighting over the same argument every single time. Every time he would come home for no more than a week at a time, and then he would be called off again and then they would scream at each other and then he would be out the door, reconciliation to come much later._

"_You knew things were going to be like this when you married me," he continued to rant on. "and yet you STILL give me grief every time I have to go! This is my life! I would have expected you to have understood that by now!"_

_He zipped his suitcase up and pushed past her out the door. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard her voice call back to him._

"_You can't keep asking me to do this." her voice was quiet, yet surprisingly firm. "I want a family, Joe. A real family. A complete one. And I can't keep sitting around waiting for you to finally settle down for me. I'm serious, Joe...one of these days, you may come back, and I won't be here."_

_His hand rested on the doorknob as the words sunk into his head. As many times as they had had this argument, those words had never before been issued. Maybe it had always existed in an unspoken, but now that she had said it, it would hang there like a bad smell._

_And for seven agonizing seconds, he was left to contemplate the fate of his marriage. Leave her again, or disobey orders and stay with her. If he disobeyed, there would surely be hell to pay. If he left, there would still be hell to pay._

_He loved her. He really did. They had been married for twelve years, and when he did see her, they got along great. He supported her when she was fired from her job four years ago, and supported her when she got an even better one six months later. And she had tried to support his job too, even despite the constant fights over it._

_He loved his job. Every other job he had had been a failure, and every time he had come close to bankruptcy. Being an operator had been the most fulfilling job he had ever had. He got to see the world, he got to make a difference in peoples' lives, and he got paid well for it. The only real downsides were dying and killing people, and in his philosophy, he only killed those who tried to kill others, and if he died, then it would not matter much anymore._

_So where did that leave him? He heard her footsteps coming down the stairs but could not bring himself to turn around and face her, even as she placed her hand on his shoulder._

"_Please," she said, her voice breaking._

_It was the tone of her voice that cemented the decision. Whether or not it was the right decision was something he would have to figure out later._

_He turned the knob and threw the door open, grabbed his bags off the floor, and walked right out without even looking back._

"Probably not," he answered. "The way I left, I'll be lucky if I even get a hug."

Shipley and Bielski gave each other somber looks. They knew all about their friend's home troubles. It was a bad feeling, when a friend had issues that they could not help with. In a battle, they could help each other. In the real world, it was every man for himself.

"Man, I'm getting hungry," Travis blurted out.

"Alright," Sanderson looked at one of the houses, a big three-story one painted yellow. "We'll stop in here for a second, grab some supplies, and then keep moving."

Bielski took point, lifting his CAR-15 as he slowly pushed the door open. Hallings followed him in, his machine-gun also at the ready. Shipley went in next, followed by the civilians and then Sanderson.

It was such a simple house, and yet a war torn one.. Toys were strewn everywhere, indicating one or more children having lived there. The vases containing the flowers were all knocked over, all but one, which contained torn and half-eaten daisies. The cupboards, once neatly arranged, had the doors open, some hanging off their hinges, and food, plates, and silverware were thrown all over as though a tornado had come through. The couch had been turned over, the stuffing ripped out of the cushions. What had been a peaceful suburbia was now a mess, one of epic proportions.

"What happened...?" Anna asked, her breath short. The children...

"Sarge."

Shipley tore a red panel off the window and showed it to the sergeant. Sanderson knew it immediately. Red meant danger zone. Dead on arrival. Its occupants were either dead or...one of the others. He raised his rifle back up to arms.

"Alright," he said, "stay alert. Whatever came through here, there's a good chance it's still here. Stay close to my men, and keep an ear out for any noises. Let's get what we came here for and get out."

The two snipers immediately nodded and began checking the upstairs, weapons at ready. Hallings looked around, trying to remain calm but Anna could see his panic system starting to kick in. They had come in here looking for safety, but safety was not a word they could use in this town anymore.

Jim was looking through the cupboards, either not hearing the warning or not caring. He found a box of Pop-Tarts that had definitely hit the expiration date, an empty bag of Doritos, and a carton of milk that smelled like crap rotting for three days. _Jeez_, he thought, _I know it's the apocalypse, but couldn't they __have gone shopping?_

"Yo, dude."

Travis came up in a whisper, concealing something in the pocket of his hoodie. Jim placed the carton of milk down and turned to him with a frown. His friend pulled out a bag of grass and a pipe and gave him a smile that said, "Yeah, you know it."

"Jesus, are you kidding me?" Jim groaned and looked over his shoulder to see if the soldiers were looking at them.

"Aw, come on, one quick hit!" Travis insisted.

"Dude, _we're with soldiers_!"

"Oh, what are they going, arrest us? Now? Give me a break. 'Sides, what's one hit going to do?"

"Other than make me tired, make you hungry, and attract anything within a five-mile radius? Nothing, I'm sure."

"Fine, if you're not gonna take some, I will. Just make sure they don't walk in on me."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Jim rolled his eyes as Travis snuck into a room to get started.

Weed was just one of the routine habits they were involved with, the other main two being video games and drinking. Jim was a recreational user, Anna has done it once or twice, but Travis was the expert pot head. He knew the best stuff to use, and the majority of the time he was either high as a kite, in the early stages, or in the later stages. The only times he was not high was in class (which in itself was a rarity, seeing as he was now on disciplinary probation), and the current crisis up until this point. He needed to keep himself calm; a hit of his "magic" would definitely keep him in that frame of mind.

He leaned back against the wall and rested his eyes. Who would have thought, three days ago, he and Travis had been planning a massive gaming night, fill of beer, drugs, and some Playstation, no studying, no nagging female roommates, just them and the TV. Then came the apocalypse. Now they had one less nagging female roommate and no studying, but the fun festivities had not happened either...although Travis might argue against that currently.

And then there were these Delta guys. The ones here to "save" them, although they seemed in dire need of saving themselves. Oh, he had no doubt they were who they said they were; they had information that, according to Anna and the sergeant, only Delta soldiers were privileged to know. And their training and weapons definitely suggested Special Forces, not a group of savage townsfolk armed with guns and dressed like soldiers posing to kill victims out of insanity. It was just that they were so...strange, compared to how soldiers supposed to act. Except for the sergeant, who was as gruff and tough as an army sergeant was supposed to be, they were incredibly lax around each other, calling each other by first names or nicknames, getting shut-eye on the job, responding with a "sure, Sarge" to an order instead of a "yes Sergeant" like they did on TV. During the stressful times, like now, they were alert and ready for anything. During every other time, they were like a bunch of guys walking down the street on a Friday night.

Personally, if it came to a gunfight, his policy was to turn and run the other way before the other side had a chance to raise their weapon. Cowardly? Yes, but it got him out alive, and that was all that mattered to him.

He was about to ask for the time when he heard a _bump_ against the door Travis had gone through. He turned to it, frowning. Surely he could not be that stoned already that he was crashing into things? He placed his hand on the knob and slowly pushed it open and hoped against hope that Travis at least had his Godforsaken pants on.

"Travis? You okay-?"

WHAM! In an instant, Travis slammed through the door, into Jim, causing the two of them to fall backwards against the wall. He rolled off him, leaving nothing in the way between Jim and the five-year-old zombie child that was now looking at him with the same hungry expression that the people in their backyard had had on them. And he had quickly come to learn that that hungry expression usually meant something really bad.

The boy-zombie-whatever it was, growled a rather high-pitched growl and leapt upon him. With a yelp of equal pitch, Jim shot his foot out and kicked it into its stomach, not realizing until two seconds later at how bad an idea that was when he saw how close his leg was to its mouth. Apparently whatever brain cells it had left comprehended that as well, because it grabbed hold and held on tight. He kicked his way out as it lurched down for a bite-

Travis slammed into it, knocking it aside. In his hands now was a pan he had grabbed from the kitchen, and as it stood back up he held it up like a baseball bat. Jim sprang to his feet and looked around for something to use, and not finding much other than an empty box of cereal when it sprang at them again.

Travis brought the pan down and smacked the zombie boy to the ground. It groaned that particularly gruesome groan that always sent a shiver down Jim's spine. Travis went postal. He leaped onto it and continually brought the pan down onto its head, smashing its skull in over and over until the skull was not a skull but a mash of red mush.

"Dude, enough." Jim pulled his friend off the now-headless monster. There were drops of blood splattered along Travis's face.

"Dude..." he gasped, looking down at what at one point had been a little boy. "I...I think I killed him..."

"I think he was already dead before you did, man," Jim pointed out, helping him to his feet. "Hard to get any more dead than this now, anyway-"

There was another loud growl as a second zombie leaped out at them. Both kids turned to face the new threat-

And witnessed just as its head exploded at the sound of a gunshot. It fell backwards and lay still.

Sanderson lowered his smoking handgun as he stepped forward, examining the body to be sure that this time, it really was dead. He looked up at the two boys.

"You two alright?" he asked, looking them over for bite wounds. He found none.

"About as alright as we can be in this city these days," Jim muttered. To his surprise, the sergeant snorted in agreement.

"Alright, well, be careful. We found three more upstairs, a woman and two kids. The whole family turned into these things."

Jim felt another shudder run through him. In his mind's eye, he watched as the family had faced those zombies...maybe they had even tried to fight them off? Given the messy state of the household it was possible, but how could any of them know for sure? But whatever they had done had not saved their lives, because here they all were, the big old happy family in this one house.

Footsteps announced Hallings' arrival. His face was pale; he was in panic mode.

"We got trouble," he reported.

"Talk to me," Sanderson snapped, and Jim recognized the tone. He was going into command mode.

"Six man patrol coming down the road. Shipley's got eyes on them, but they heard the shots. You want us to take them out, or let them go by?"

"Let them go by. It's bad enough having to deal with targets that DON'T shoot back."

The two exchanged glances. Targets that shot back? No zombie they knew of had used any weapon other than their claws...what were they talking about?

"Have Shipley keep eyes on them, and have Bielski take the back entrance. Get the kids in the back, I'll cover the front door. Keep them quiet; if any of them come in, deal with it as quietly as you can. Got it?"

"Got it, Sarge."

Sanderson got up, unslung his CAR-15 off his back, and headed off to the front door. Hallings ushered the two teens out.

"Come on, we'll hide out in the family room," he told them.

"What is it? More zombies?" Travis asked.

"No, but just as bad," the soldier answered. "Just stay quiet and hope they move past us."

Anna was waiting for them as they arrived. She looked just as confused by the sudden movements as her friends were. Hallings shut the door and locked it behind them. He then placed a claymore mine in front of the door and delicately removed the safety pin.

Anna's eyes widened. "What are you-?"

"It's just a precaution." Hallings backed away from the door and pointed the barrel of his SAW at the top part, where the head of a human would be. "Just in case they get this close. Get to the back of the room."

"In case WHO gets this close?" Jim demanded as the operator ushered them back. The room was the standard family room, with a TV, a couch, and a chair all neatly in their places. It looked like the war against the undead never made it to this room.

Hallings knelt behind the couch and placed his machine-gun on the armrest, straight at the door. He took a deep breath, inhaling through the nose and exhaling through the mouth. It helped to calm him down; he just forgot to do it in most extreme situations. He glanced over at them.

"A private military organization from the Umbrella Corporation," he told them. "They were dropped in with us; we thought it was to help with the riots."

"Well, then why are we hiding from them if they're helping you?" Jim asked, but Anna held back her tongue. Hallings had said they had THOUGHT the other soldiers were helping them.

"Yeah, well, right after we came in, they started shooting at us for no reason," Hallings continued, returning to the door and staring intently at it. "We ended up wiping out one of their convoys, and since then we've avoided any contact. They have superior numbers and firepower, but they're just a mercenary force; we have better training and equipment."

"So...why not just attack them, like...all Splinter Cell and shit?" Travis, ever the one with his head in the clouds, asked.

Anna groaned. Jim slapped him upside the head.

"Well, that's where the numbers and firepower come into their favor. This patrol coming in now is only six guys, but if they don't report back, their command is gonna think something is up, and they'll send more. It's safer to just let them go by. Which hopefully they will."

"_Delta Five-Two, this is Delta Five Leader."_

Hallings pressed his fingers to his helmet link. "Roger, Five Leader. What's up?"

"_Two of them are coming into the building through the back entrance. We are going radio silent for the time being. Keep them quiet in there."_

"Copy that. Five-Two out."

"Your helmet radios work?" Jim asked, his eyes on the small mouthpiece. "Can't you use those to contact the other teams?"

"They're programmed so that we can only communicate with our own team. If we wanted to contact the others we'd have to use the main radio. Now keep it quiet, we've got incoming."

Travis opened his mouth again, only to have Anna place her hand over it to keep him quiet. Jim once again looked around for something to use as a weapon, but stopped when it hit him that anything other than a gun would probably be useless against living men with rifles and training.

Hallings had fallen back into a state of calm serenity. The man was more sporadic than anyone else they had ever met; at times flipping out, at times cool as ice. Sanderson had a theory that his brain COULD function properly in a serious situation, it just depended on the situation. Whether or not that was true was something they could only guess at, but right now definitely showcased his ability to think under pressure.

There was movement by the door, and then the doorknob began to turn. Hallings placed his finger ever so gently on the trigger, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. Jim's main concerned turned to the Claymore in front of the door. If the door opened, it would go off; question was, in this room, would the explosion kill them too, hurt them a little, or do nothing? Whatever the case, he would not want to be around when it went off.

Then came a sudden _bang_ against the door and then the sound of something sliding off it to the floor that made Anna jump a little. She closed her eyes and shook her head, shaking it off. Big, random noises had always made her jump; in this post-apocalyptic city, it just made everything worse.

They waited five minutes before Sanderson's voice came back on the head link.

"_Alright, the other guy is walking off. He probably thinks his buddy will clean house. We're clear. Now let's get out of here before they realize they're a tail gunner short."_

"Roger. Coming out." Hallings stood and slung his SAW back on its strap. "I'll just clean up, and we'll be on our way."

He went to the door and went through the delicate procedure of putting the Claymore back together. He was acting like nothing had happened, like they had just stopped in for a nap. Jim had to wonder how a soldier came to be in this frame of mind, and wondered if the trooper could give him some tips.

He turned to Anna and Travis, who were just getting their own emotions back in order. The whole time, they had been just as panicky as he had been. It had been nerve-wracking to them, whereas the Delta operators were completely at peace. How do you be at peace when the whole city was out to kill you? Was it the training, was it the amount of time spent together, or was it something else, some internal decision made on their behalf?

As an English major in college, Jim had always been taught that to write characters, you had to understand them. Understand how they worked, how they thought, what made them tick, all of that. Things that made a story character a real person. Fictional characters had usually been no problem for him, as he could make up whatever story he wanted for them, but when faced with a living breathing person, that was when he had to put what he had learned into practice. If he had any shot of getting out of here and recording his experiences, he would have to get a better understanding.

"Alright, we're set." Hallings set the mine in his bag, lifted it back onto his shoulders. "Let's roll out."

"Come on." Anna put her hand on Jim's shoulder to snap him out of his thoughts. "The faster we leave, the better."

"Yeah..." Jim shook his head clear. "Let's go."

* * *

Shipley and Bielski had stuffed the corpse of the soldier they had killed in the recycling bin behind the house, and now with the lid down one would never know unless they were taking out the trash. Anna had the eerie feeling that no one would come to live in this house again.

They waited until the patrol had turned the corner down the road and were on the road again, moving in the same formation they were before. The operators were now discussing baseball, and which team they believed would sweep the series this year. Sanderson voiced his opinion that it would be the Cubs, who had had a good season thus far, while Shipley stated that the Indians would make a come-from-behind, his partner arguing against him with a declaration of Royals winning.

"Amazing," Jim noted silently to her. "They can actually talk about baseball at a time like this."

Sanderson heard him, of course. The sergeant had the ears of a fox; he could hear even the tiniest whisper, the lightest footstep. He slowed his pace so that he could walk with the two of them.

"What would you rather us talk about?" he asked him. "How zombies are taking over the city? How we have a pharmaceutical company's mercenaries on our tail? Or how we're probably the last surviving human beings in this whole city?"

Jim said nothing, or did not know what to say.

"A guy needs to have small talk, kid. Anything to keep his mind off a bad situation. Otherwise, he just loses it. You gotta have some fun in your life, otherwise, what's the point?"

"That's what I'm always telling him," Travis responded with, laughing. "Both of them, they're way too serious. Our other roommate was the same way, all three of them, serious worry warts about everything. School, boyfriends, all that, after a while you just lose your mind in all of it-"

"There's another roommate?" Sanderson frowned. "Why's it just the three of you?"

There was a pause, as Anna and Jim looked at each other gravely. The sergeant got the feeling that whatever happened to him/her, it had not been good.

"When I said that we found out what was going on when we woke up..." Anna started. "Kelly, um...she found out the hard way. She said she thought it was just some mugger who bit her when she refused to hand over the money, but..."

"Hey, wait..." Travis held up his hand, frowning. "I think I know that guy."

He trodded over to- and this just baffled Sanderson, the other operators, and the two other teenagers as well- a body laying in the middle of the street, his arms and face covered in bite marks. He bent down to check the face.

"Shit...it IS Reed, man," He cursed. "Fucking zombies, they just killed off my dealer."

Now, how Travis could tell that he knew a person lying in the middle of the road simply by appearance and then by his face was a question Sanderson could not answer, nor did he care to answer. What concerned him was the fact that this poor, idiot kid who apparently has done so much weed that he could officially be called brain dead was poking very close to a body covered in teeth marks _in the middle of a city engulfed in zombies_. THAT was more concerning to him. You had to be pretty damn stupid to do something like that.

"Kid! Get back here! Are you fucking nuts?" he hissed angrily. Behind him, Shipley and Bielski had their weapons raised and ready if needed.

Travis stood back up and turned to them.

"Hey, come on, man, he's a friend," he called back, unaware that his "friend" was slowly starting to stand up behind him, with the uncanny look of the undead in his eyes. "Can't I just show a little respect for-"

"_Shit! Get out of the way_!" Sanderson raised his rifle as the zombie opened his mouth to take a bite and-

BAM! The sound of a 7.62mm bullet cracked through the air as the zombie's head exploded just as Travis turned to see what was going on. He jumped backwards as the blood sprayed onto his face and the body crumpled back to the ground, not getting back up again.

"Jesus!" he screamed. "Every fucking body in this town just _has_ to get back up! I am getting SO sick of this shit!"

"Wow." Hallings whistled and looked over at Shipley, eying his M-21. "Good shot, man. How fast did you pull that one off from the time it got back up, two seconds?"

"Um..." Shipley looked at his rifle, then at the body, confused. "That...wasn't me..."

Sanderson felt his heart stop. Literally; it paused for two whole beats. He realized suddenly that the left side of the zombie's head had exploded, not the front. Meaning whatever had fired had come from up the road...where the Umbrella soldiers had gone up.

"Wha-?"

Travis turned his body up the road just as Sanderson began to move towards him. What happened after that went so fast they did not have time to process it until much later.

The bullet hit Travis before they even heard the sound, passing right through the right side of his chest and passing right out his back, leaving a fairly large hole in his chest. At the sound, Hallings and Bielski immediately ducked behind the car. The other two operators took a knee; Anna and Jim were frozen in spot.

"Son of a-" Travis turned towards them, hands covering a wound that was squirting blood, a sad, pained look on his face as he stared at them...and then fell to his knees and fell forward, laying face down, one arm trapped under his chest, the other bent out at his side.

"_Travis_!" Anna screamed. Jim blinked, his breathing heavy. That did not just happen..._that did not just happen_...

"Damn it, get down!" Sanderson grabbed them both and threw them against the car as the rest of the team opened fire.

Umbrella soldiers were poking out now, and there were more than six of them now; there were at least thirty more. Assault rifles, sub-machine guns, machine-guns, sniper rifles, and shotguns, were all firing a hail of lead at them. The cars were riddled in minutes. The tires on the outside sides were flattened and the cars slumped on their sides due to lack of support. the windows were shattered and glass fell onto them as they tried to fire back, sometimes scoring a hit, sometimes not.

Hallings was panicking again, firing his machine-gun in any direction he could and forgetting the deep breathing. Shipley and Bielski were taking the more concentrated shots, but even they were not having much luck, as these soldiers apparently had the training to keep themselves alive for a little while longer than Delta would have liked. From what Sanderson could see, either they had a smart leader or they had better training than he had anticipated.

They were wearing the green jackets again...how many different Umbrella factions were there? Between them and the ones from the convoy that counted at least two, and he knew there was a definite Spec Ops unit to make it three...unless the convoy soldiers were the Spec Ops? No, the way they were taken by surprise like that, no way they were special forces. But then what the hell were they? Another mercenary group? One was bad enough, two was a nightmare and throw a Spec Ops in and it was chaos. What the hell kind of pharmaceutical company could fund three private military functions? He knew Umbrella was wealthy, but this was overkill; it was like they were planning a world conquest or something...

"Alright, keep them suppressed, we're gonna pull back and go the other way!" he called out to the others.

Jim was the only one not paying attention. His eyes were fixated on Travis' body, which now had a growing pool of blood growing out from under it. He should not be laying like that...it was not decent. Someone had to pull him back...someone had to get to him...

"Jimmy, NO!"

"Oh, son of a _bitch_!"

Those were the only things he heard as he hauled his ass back across the street to his friend. Bullets whizzed by his head and hit the pavement as he ran, some shooting pebbles up and hitting his foot, throwing his balance off.

He was almost to the corpse when a bullet hit the lower part of his left leg, resting right against the bone as he fell to the ground on top of Travis. He cried out in pain, bringing his fingertips to the hole and yelling again when it just brought more pain. His head spun from dizziness, and any attempt to rationally think was shot down by incredible pain. Now he was the one stuck out there while all the bullets were flying; the irony, if he could think about it, was astounding.

"Jimmy!" Anna was close to losing it. In less than a minute both of her friends were in danger, one shot in the leg and the other...it was too much. If Jimmy died, then she would probably throw herself out in front of the fire. She could not lose all of them...not like this...

"God damn it," Bielski turned to Shipley. "Come on, let's go get him."

Both snipers jumped up, took a couple of shots, and sprinted across the street. Even with the heavy bags on their backs and the heavy rifles in their hands, they sprinted as though they were running a track meet. Sanderson and Hallings opened fire on the Umbrella forces to cover them, but they could not keep it up forever.

Jim was trying to sit himself up when the two operators arrived. Shipley covered them while Bielski wrapped the wounded teen's arm around his neck.

"Come on, kid. This isn't the safest part of the neighborhood to take a dirt nap," he said, throwing a wink and a smile at him in a perfectly calm voice. It soothed Jim, despite the situation.

The blonde operator lifted him up and looked up in time to see a rocket whizzing over their heads. They were bringing out the RPGs now, and that one couldn't have been more than twenty, twenty-five feet away. Further up the road, he could see them setting up a heavy machine-gun, probably a fifty caliber. It was aiming in the direction of the others, but that did not mean they could not turn and take them out first.

With the firepower, and now, looking back at the distance between them and the cover, Bielski realized, with a gut-sinking feeling, that they had better chances of heading through the opposite alley to get away. If they stayed, or tried to run back, they would be cut to pieces.

"_They're getting a gun set up! Get back here!_" Sanderson's voice came on over the helmet link.

Bielski looked over at Shipley, who read the expression perfectly and nodded. He brought his hand to the link.

"Sarge, we go that way, we're as good as dead," he said. "You guys get on out of here. We'll go through the alley and hole up in a house and defend it until you can reach us. We'll link up with you later."

"_Biels, don't be a hero. Get back here!"_

"I'm not being a hero, I'm being practical! We have a better chance at going through the alley! Look, we're going now, Sarge, with or without you. Link up with us later."

"_Mike, I'm telling you for the last time-"_

"_We'll meet up later! _Sniper Two-One, out."

"Bielski!" Sanderson stood up and immediately went back down as the heavy gun opened fire over their heads.

"Shipley, let's get out of here!" Bielski yelled to his partner.

"Roger, I got you covered!" Shipley fired off two shots, taking out the assistant gunner with one shot but missing the main gunner with the other.

From his perch, Sanderson watched as they withdrew through the alley, Bielski going with Jim first, Shipley covering them until they were through and then turning and following. He cursed. Now they were on their own.

The fire was getting too intense. They had no choice but to fall back now; otherwise, they would never see the others again.

"Alright, let's go! Anna, you follow me! Hallings, cover!"

Anna looked at him as though he were insane, to which he responded by lifting her up by her sleeve and dragging her forward as Hallings ran behind them, firing one last burst before turning and running full out. They ducked into a back alley and kept moving, not looking back.

"Sarge, what about the others?" he heard his gunner ask.

"They can take care of themselves for now. It'll have to do. For now it's you and me, so we'll have to be even more alert. Keep moving."

Something had changed...he could feel it, as he moved forward and away from an enemy that was slowly threatening to overpower them. He had hoped to move past Umbrella without stirring the hornet's nest anymore than he had. Now two of his best men were out there, cut off from the rest of them and forced to work on their own.

And while they were more than capable of doing it, Sanderson could not help but feel like he had just seen his best friends for the final time.

* * *

Wow, this took a lot longer than I expected. Next chapter should be shorter. Should be up sooner too.

Not really much else to talk about, other than...well, I'll guess I'll talk about Resident Evil 5, since I didn't last chapter.

I bought this game on release day and I was sure to death that I would love it. Having waited four years for this game to be released, I was looking forward to another game in the series with a continuation to the story and new enemies to kill.

But as it turns out, I was disappointed.

Resident Evil 5 is so BAD, so diabolically putrid, that I couldn't even get into the story elements of it. The main villains were stock and so cheesy that I had to change the language settings to something else just so that I couldn't have to hear the stupid dialogue they were saying. The enemies were just rehashed from Resident Evil 4 with almost no changes between those from that game and those in this one (not to mention the Lickers...I mean, really, were we so out of ideas that we had to drag Resident Evil 2 villains into this?).

The controls are broken beyond belief. Quick-turn is shit, activating inventory is about as simple as pulling wisdom teeth (not to mention that it doesn't pause the game and the amount of inventory you take in itself is the biggest joke ever told), your character moves so slow you wonder how he even survives anything, and one hit drains three quarters of a health bar. And the Quick-Time Events, oh sweet Jesus, the Quick-Time events. I did not mind them in Resident Evil 4, but here they were overused with no other purpose other than to have them, and the worst part was that if it was a long cutscene and the events happened at the end and you weren't ready then your plans for the evening did not involve you throwing your controller out the window.

And finally, the partner system. I was looking forward to the partner system because I had always wondered why no other game imitated the Resident Evil 0 gameplay. To have someone tag along with you, take inventory with you, and most importantly, kill things with you, is a much-appreciated helper. It's great..._in theory_. Unfortunately, it's bogged down by the partner A.I. being pants-on-head-finger-up-the-nose-retarded. She steals ammunition, she shoots you repeatedly in the back if you're in her way, she'll use healing items when it's not needed, and there were moments where she was carrying 500 machine-gun bullets and 50 shotgun shells and was STILL USING HER FUCKING PISTOL AT _EVERY POSSIBLE MOMENT._

So, in conclusion, to have to have waited four years for this game is the biggest insult in the world, because it certainly was not worth the wait. This game has a storyline copy and pasted from other games, a partner A.I. that is so brain-damaged that it basically BEGS you to play it in co-op (which, even AFTER I got a friend to play with me, we STILL couldn't find anything good about it), controls that make you want to rent a high-rise apartment just so that you'll get more satisfaction when the controller falls further when you toss it out the window, and, worse of all, it pretends to be a Resident Evil game when it clearly is not. This is not Resident Evil; I'm not sure WHAT it is, but it sure as fuck isn't that. It is a soulless gaming experience, with the best part being that it ended and the worst part being that somebody actually FINANCED it.

Whew, there, I'm done. See you guys next time.


	20. Standing Down

And here, we finally enter the twenties chapters.

Gonna tie up some loose ends with this chapter, but enjoy it anyway.

* * *

Chapter Twenty: Standing Down

There was a heavy silence in the room when Mackenzie finished his story. Riley put his pen down and shook his head clear, a look of shock on his face. Sullivan's face was stoic, expressionless, his body posture rigid and straight, not trying to show the confusion and fear that was circling in his mind.

Just how much of Mackenzie's story might be true was hard to say, but from the hard-eyed Blackwater officer he could see that every word coming out of his mouth was, in his mind, all completely true. He had seen and heard some strange things in his military career, but this was just too unbelievable. Not so much that the opposition was zombies; more that they actually had the technology to MAKE the opposition zombies.

"So you're saying...that the Umbrella Corporation has been taking government issued-money, given to them with the intention of helping people...and used it to create undead bio-weapons so that they can rule the world," he repeated slowly, for his own sake rather than his guest's.

"Well, 'rule the world' may be a bit extreme," Mackenzie responded.

"_Extreme_? What would you call this, a fun little past time for some cooped up scientists? There are one hundred THOUSAND people in that city that are now either walking dead or being eaten by walking dead. My teams are either dead or scattered, mercenaries are shooting anyone on sight. Umbrella has three military organizations and enough bio-nuclear weapons to fund their own country, and all of it is right under the government's noses. If that's not enough to convince me Umbrella's planning to be the Big Player in the world, then my name is General George Patton."

"Where did they even get the idea to DO something like that?" Riley demanded, still shaking his head, only now in a stupor. "Too many monster movies? How does something like this even get passed on the committee board?"

"All I know is that from the reports, they started research on a flower they extracted in Africa. It's effects are based off the Ebola virus, that sort of thing. I'm a soldier, not a biologist, the specifics are beyond me."

"And this has been going on since the sixties and no one has had a clue..." Sullivan walked over to the window and looked out onto the compound, where the National Guard soldiers were just starting to arrive with some refugees lucky enough to get out of the city.

That was the problem with conglomerate companies, he thought to himself. If they got too powerful, they believed they could just do whatever they wanted. They tried to get away with whatever they could without fear of any consequences. They thought they were invincible.

Well, that bubble of theirs was about to be popped, big time. They had picked the wrong outfit to mess with.

"Riley, what's the status on Sergeant Arnold's convoy?" he asked.

"I'll check." Riley got up and stuck his head out the door. "Sonar, ETA on Arnold's convoy?"

He stepped backwards as the corporal stepped into the room. They called him "Sonar" because he had the uncanny ability to predict when things were coming, be it incoming helicopter ten minutes before they could even hear the rotors, or the National Guard convoy when they were still fifteen minutes out. He said it was a trick of the wind that he had picked up from his father, who had been a fisherman off the coast of Cape Cod. A nerdy kid, glasses on his nose and two front teeth that were a tad too big, he nonetheless had won a soft spot with Sullivan, and was kept at their headquarters to keep them informed.

"They're on their way now, sir. ETA, momentarily."

* * *

The sounds of the incoming convoy woke Jack Hughes from his nap. He blinked twice, yawned, rubbed the sleep out of his weary eyes and checked his watch. 8:32 AM. He had slept for a little over four hours.

He had told himself when he landed his Little Bird for refueling that he would not sleep, but once he was out of the cockpit he suddenly became aware of how exhausted he was. Greeno told him to get some shut eye, he would wake him when they could leave. He had not wanted to, but a yawn had ended the conversation, and really, the other pilots could handle it, right?

He looked up and realized that the compound suddenly had a lot more soldiers around than when he had been asleep. At first he thought it was the unit, and he was both excited and annoyed that he had slept through their rescue. But then he took a closer look and realized it was just infantry; the National Guard units had arrived and were getting organized.

"Hey," Greeno came over to him, a mug of coffee in his hands. He offered it to the pilot. "Sleep well?"

"Well enough," replied Hughes, taking the cup and drinking half of it in one gulp. "Well enough to get going again."

"Alright, well, we're just loading in the last of the rockets. We should be good to go in no time."

When they had put heavy caliber rounds and rockets onto the Little Birds at the start of the mission two days ago (_Jesus Christ, had it really only been two days?_), they had all felt shocked, reserved at the idea of using so much firepower on what they thought had been ordinary civilians. That reservation was gone now. Whatever was going on down there, they weren't human, and with that in mind they loaded up with every high-density machine-gun bullet and rocket that they could load onto an MH-6.

There were sudden shouts from across the court. Both pilots looked up to see the medics and medical personnel running towards the gate, two of them carrying a stretcher. Hughes and Greeno looked at each other.

"You think it's them?" the co-pilot asked, his face suddenly lit up with hope.

"One way to find out." Hughes downed the rest of the coffee and got up to view the scene.

The convoy pulled into the entrance right as they arrived on the scene. Hughes could see Sergeant Arnold in the lead Jeep and a smile came to his face; they had got out, they were home. That smile faded when the Humvee came in and then nothing else followed them.

"Weren't...there supposed to be THREE Humvees?" he asked.

"Yeah..." Greeno's brow furrowed as well. "And this one doesn't look too healthy either, does it?"

They watched as the vehicles slowed to a halt and the doors to the rear opened. And that was when they heard the screams coming from the hatch; an agonized, hysterical scream, like a wild animal who had been shot and was left for dead. The screaming made the hairs on the backs of their necks stand on end and goosebumps crawl down their arms. Being in the helicopters, they normally did not have to hear this sort of thing. Now here it was, and it was terrifying.

There was some scuffling in the back, and then the two medics with the stretcher came back into view, this time with Delta Three's Corporal Pettigrew riding on it. One look at him made Hughes instantly recoil. Pettigrew looked like he had been put through the meat grinder; shrapnel had all but destroyed his chest, ends of it sticking out of his vest like metal rods. His face was a mixture of pain and weariness, and with his wounds the pilot was amazed that he was still breathing.

His eyes were so fixated on him that he did not notice the other figure being taken out of the back of the Humvee until Greeno elbowed him in the ribs.

"Hey," he said, "isn't that Delta Two's guy?"

Turning his head, Hughes could see that it was indeed Delta Two's machine-gunner, the religious one, Slowenski. Seeing that turned his stomach in another direction. He had not known the man very well, but everyone always knew him as "the Bible Nut". He had seemed like a nice enough guy, though; certainly he did not deserve something like this.

The two men carried Slowenski's body off to the morgue as the two carrying Pettigrew set the stretcher down for the surgeon, Doc Gideon, to stabilize him before taking into the OR. Arnold tore off his bulky Tac-Vest, jacket, and helmet and jumped out of the driver's seat of the Jeep to help.

Arnold was already in a bad mood. Never mind that his convoy was destroyed, his team were walking wounded, and his neck was stinging from where the bullet had left its mark. There was also the fact that they had abandoned the remainder of Delta Two just to get back here, and also that his partner was bleeding out in front of him. He was tired, he was hungry, he was cold, and, above all else, he was livid. All of those and more were enough to put anyone in a foul mood, but now it was to the point where he could punch a brick wall and probably break the damn thing, along with his hand.

"Doc, what can I do?" he asked.

"Supply pressure here while I try to...tie this off," Gideon grunted, his hands pressed against one of the several holes that poked the chest.

Arnold took one of the Compress bandages and pushed against the wound, and in doing so got a squirt of blood spraying diagonally across his shirt and face. He flinched as the warm liquid soiled his cheek and chin, and looked down at his tan and now red shirt. Great, he thought. As if things had not gone completely to shit as it was.

Pettigrew's breathing grew wheezy, and his head started jerking in spasms.

"What's happening?" demanded Arnold.

"He's going into shock. The shrapnel must have punctured his lung." Gideon looked up at the attendants. "We've got to get him inside now."

The two pilots were looking on in horror at all of this as the medics took off with the wounded Delta soldier, leaving Arnold looking after them now covered in blood. They had never seen a D-Boy that badly wounded before. They got cuts and bruises from drops, and every now and again someone took a round to the arm or the leg, but never anything like this. It unnerved them. It was just one more crack in a shield that had been destroyed during the fight at the LZ.

Arnold glanced up and saw the two of them staring off at Pettigrew. That just made him even more mad. They had no business looking on, not when they should have been doing their jobs.

"What are you looking at?" he demanded harshly. "Shouldn't you be up in the air?"

"We were getting resupplied-"

"Yeah, well, you're done. So go do your fucking jobs already."

The look he gave them was enough to get them going. Greeno left first, turning and walking off without a pause or a second glance. Hughes offered the sergeant a look of sympathy, saw that it was not going to be returned, and took off after his co-pilot.

Arnold took a deep breath to compose himself and then stood up to look around at the National Guard soldiers, all of whom had stopped what they were doing to stare at him. All surprised that a Delta squad could get this beaten up. Well, now was not one of those times where he felt like being idolized. If he could, he would have taken out his pistol to scare them all off.

Atkins waddled over and stood next to him. He had a dazed look on his face, his hand pressed against the Compress covering the wound in his side.

"What the fuck happened back there, Sarge?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I don't know..." Arnold shook his head. "For whatever reason, Umbrella thought we were the bad guys."

"They were waiting for us." His gunner, experienced as he was, was now having something close to a panic attack. "They had to have been waiting for us, I mean, seriously, where the hell did they all come from, huh? One minute they're not there, the next minute, they're there? I didn't hear any trucks or choppers bringing them in, did you? They had to have been waiting for us, they planned a fucking ambush on us!"

"But _why_, Rich? That's the question. The soldiers at the LZ were working side-by-side with us, so why are they attacking us now?"

"Who the fuck _cares_, man? They're attacking us now, they just fucked up our whole team!"

"Alright, calm down." Already the National Guard troops were starting to inch closer to hear what was going on. "Let's not lose our heads here, alright? Let's figure this out."

Lake hopped down from the turret and walked over, his CAR-15 in his good right hand while his left hung limply at his side, the Compress covering his entire shoulder stained with blood. He managed a weak grin to them.

"Some fight, huh?" he asked.

That did it for Atkins. Without warning, he whipped around and punched Lake right in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. He would have started kicking him as well if his sergeant had not grabbed him by the arms to hold him back.

"_Motherfucker_!" he yelled.

"What the _hell_?" Lake demanded, rubbing his jaw in surprise.

"_You fucking jinxed us_!" Atkins screamed, struggling to get out of Arnold's hold. "All that talk at the gas station, how we were fine, how we'd get through it no problem, 'oh, they're slow, don't shoot back and go down with a bullet to the head', all that shit! Well, _look around, motherfucker, WE'RE NOT FINE, ARE WE_?!"

"Rich! Back off!" Arnold demanded.

"Ski's fucking DEAD, asshole! Zack's probably not gonna make it to the operating table, our vehicles are fucked, we've all been shot, and now Delta Two's fighting on their own in a city that, guess what, WANTS US ALL _DEAD_!"

"_Stand down_!" Arnold threw his team member aside onto the ground and placed his foot roughly between his shoulder blades. "We're not doing this, alright? We're not going to just sit here, placing blame on one another just so that an hour from now, we can be _right back here WITH THE SAME FUCKING PROBLEM_! Pull your shit together!"

Fine time for people to be viewing them, he thought miserably to himself. Especially National Guard troops, the bottom of the ring. If Delta could get this banged up in the city, how could they fare to do any better? And now they were fighting among themselves like children. All they needed now was for their parents to lecture them and their careers might as well be over.

Which reminded him. He needed to talk to Sullivan and make his report. He picked Atkins back up and dusted him off.

"I'm going to go and report to the captain," he told him. "Stand down until I get back. If I come back here and find either one of you dead, the one who's still alive is going to be in a world of pain. Roger?"

Atkins did not respond; his eyes simply looked down at the ground and he grunted. Lake got back to his feet, still rubbing his jaw with a hurt expression on his face. Arnold took this as their agreement to his rule, turned his back on them, and walked off to the headquarters.

Lake looked at Atkins.

"This wasn't my fault..."

His partner did not acknowledge his words; he simply turned and walked back off towards the medical building, hand still pressed over his bandage. Lake stared off after him, then up at the sky with a sullen, defeated look on his normally chill face.

_How did this happen..._

* * *

Arnold had been mostly composed when he walked into Sullivan's office. Things were bad, but if he could just explain as rationally as he could, then he might be able to make sense of it and then maybe come up with a better plan. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try.

All that changed, however, when he stepped into the office and saw Sullivan, Riley...and an officer from the Umbrella forces. He took one look at the officer, at the umbrella logo on his lapel, and something inside of him stopped allowing his brain to function properly. His mind relived that catastrophe they had just left, all the blood and chaos, and now to have this man here among them...no, not happening, not while he was still breathing.

"Sam, _Sam_, DON'T."

Too late. In one second Arnold had taken his knife out of his belt, and in another second he had Mackenzie pinned against the wall, pinning his arm horizontally across his chest while bringing his knife right up against his throat.

"Get him off me!" Mackenzie yelled, as Arnold pushed the blade deeper against his neck, not quite cutting it...yet.

"Don't you make a move," he hissed at him.

"Sam, calm down!" Sullivan ordered, inching over slowly with his hand extended towards him. "It's okay, he's here to help us."

"Bull_shit_, he is!" Arnold snapped. "His fucking men just tore us to pieces out there! We barely got out of that thing with our skin still on our backs! Now he's going to show up and offer a truce?"

"No, I'm here to let you know what you're up against!" Mackenzie insisted, trying to fight against the Delta operator's hold. "Which, by the way, if they knew I was here telling you, they would probably kill me."

"Yeah? Well, they actually SHOT me!"

"Sam," Sullivan spoke calmly, figuring if he spoke quietly enough it would get his soldier to ease off. "I understand that you're angry. I'm angry too. Let's just put the knife down and talk about this, like adults."

The sergeant did not speak. Finally, he lowered the knife and placed it back in its sheath. Before releasing him, though, he grabbed the front of his shirt and held it out for the Umbrella officer to see.

"See this blood?" he asked him, making sure Mackenzie was looking right at it. "This is my partner's blood. And he's fighting for his life, _right now_, because of YOUR lunatic mercenaries."

"_They're not mine_," the captain insisted through his teeth. "I'm in charge of a Blackwater unit. It's a completely different faction!"

He watched with slight relief as a little of the anger slid off the sergeant's face, to be replaced with confusion. He finally released him and backed away from him.

"Alright, then," he said. "Let's hear it."

So for the second time that day, less than an hour after finishing his first explanation, Mackenzie told him everything he knew. What he knew, while missing some vital pieces, nonetheless was detailed. He spoke of the B.O.W developments, the experiments and practice missions, the deployment of his Blackwater unit, and the current predicament. He talked about the mission his men had undergone in the Arctic, of the men he had lost in the Umbrella Training Facility up in the Arklay Mountains, and of their deployment out here to Raccoon City. He spoke of how their communications lines had been cut, and finally of how Delta Five had ambushed his patrol, prompting his visit to their headquarters.

The entire time, Arnold stood with his back against the wall, staring intently at the officer's story. He did not speak or try to interrupt; half the time he barely even blinked. Once or twice he shifted uncomfortably, especially when the captain got to the part about Delta Five.

When Mackenzie finished, he remained silent for a minute longer. His brain swarmed with all of the new information. How could Umbrella be allowed to get away with this? This stuff was playing God; stuff a human had no right to be doing.

"And you joined them, knowing what they were doing?" he finally asked, surprised with how hoarse his voice sounded.

"I'm just a hired gun," was the reply. "It's not my place do anything other than my job."

"At any rate," Sullivan broke in with, "the National Guard unit is going in to clean up. They've got the armor and men to take out whatever threat Umbrella may pose. Delta Three is going to stand down and provide base security-"

"Excuse me?" Arnold whirled around, face dumbfounded. "What, sit around and do nothing while a bunch of greens go in and fight our fight? Fuck that, I told Bill I was going back in for him, just let me suit back up-"

"Sam, you're a mess. You just got the stuffing kicked out of you. We've got one body in the morgue and another body on the operating table, I'm not sending the three of you back in in your conditions."

"My condition can be fixed up with a bandage. The other two are fine, Lake's just got some discomfort in his arm-"

"He took a bullet through his shoulder, he probably can't move it. Atkins has got one through his side, it might have hit his kidney. They both need to be monitored, as do you."

"I'm not just going to sit on my ass while my guys are dying out there!"

"Sam, it's _my_ decision. You're sitting this out. Period."

Arnold's grip had begun to tighten around the top of one of the chairs, and at Sullivan's final order, he grabbed it and threw it agains the wall, making a loud noise and causing Riley to jump in his chair. The lieutenant rubbed his face as the sergeant gave Sullivan one final glare and stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

There was a general silence in the room, broken by Mackenzie clearing his throat.

"I need to get back to my base," he told them. "My staff needs to know what to do. I'll...I don't know, I'll send word if anything else comes up."

For a moment, Sullivan considered detaining the Blackwater officer. If what the man had said was true, then technically, that made him a conspirator to terrorism...and murder. He could put the man away for a long time with this information. But Mackenzie was in the same position that he himself was in. All he wanted now was to get his men out of the city alive; did that make him any different from Delta? The man was coming to him of his own free will; that left the table open to cut a deal.

"I'll let you go back to your men," he told the Umbrella officer, "if you give me the name of the one in charge of the other mercenary faction. The one killing my men out there. If he's responsible, he may have some more answers for us."

He saw the hesitation in Mackenzie's face, but they both knew he had to provide. He was not in much of a position to be denying them anything.

"They put the U.B.C.S forces under one of the top researchers, someone I never met," Mackenzie told them. "Someone named Isaacs. He's one of the developers on the B.O.W.'s. I think you can reach him on their base channel, they're stationed right outside the gate leading into the city."

"Alright, thank you. Good luck."

"And to you too. I really hope you get your men back."

Mackenzie and Sullivan shook hands, the feelings on animosity gone. It was just them and their soldiers now; the rest was another matter. He gave Riley one final nod and then walked out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

"Carl," Sullivan said then, getting back to business. "Get on the line. Connect to this Dr. Isaacs and tell him to get over here. I don't want to hear that he can't get here, get his ass over here before we go in and pull him out ourselves. I want the son of a bitch in this room before the end of the day."

"Roger that, Boss. Where are you going?"

"To go and find Sam, try and calm him down. Get on it."

The captain rushed out the door while Riley called in Sonar and told him to get on the horn and connect with Isaacs. No excuses, no delays. Delta wanted to meet with him. _Now_.

* * *

It took no time at all for Sullivan to find Arnold, sitting on a crate outside the door to the building, with his head in his hands. He bent down in front of him.

"Talk to me, Sergeant," he said. "What's going on in your head?"

There was a low, shaky sigh as Arnold picked his head back up. His face was red with exasperation and he looked tired and angry at the same time.

"John's still out there..." he said.

"John's been missing since the LZ. We don't even know if he's still alive. I want to find them, Sam, I do, but we need to be ready for the worst."

"And what the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that we got hit hard at the LZ and with your convoy because we didn't face facts. We went in with too little information, and now we're paying that price. I don't want to make that mistake again; I don't want to lose any more of Delta than I already have."

Arnold shook his head and looked off towards the compound. The National Guard soldiers were sitting around, waiting for orders. It would be another day or so before they would finally be able to go, but until then, their doing nothing angered him further.

But Sullivan knew what was really bothering him. He had mentioned John specifically; that only meant one thing.

"You're talking about the chemical plant op, aren't you?" No answer. He sighed. "Sam, we talked about that op to death already-"

"Yeah, I _know_," Arnold snapped, turning back to him. "I fucked up. I know it, I've _always_ known it. I should have told him about those soldiers, and I didn't, and our guys paid for it, and I..."

He rubbed his eyes and let out a groan. Sullivan hated to see him like this. Arnold was a veteran of the past nine years, had been a valuable asset to the unit. When he was done doing field work, the captain had a spot on his staff reserved for him, though only he and his lieutenant knew about it. Yet even the best of them made mistakes. And Arnold had lived with his biggest mistake for years now, without even talking about it.

The sergeant lowered his hands and stared at them. There were still bloodstains on them from where he had tried to help Pettigrew.

"When surveillance showed those units coming in, and when I saw the numbers and weapons they had...I should've said something to him. But I was just so..._angry_. Angry that he got his bars and I didn't, angry that he was the one everyone relied on and I was just...I don't know, second wing. I was a fucking _kid_, I didn't know any better..." He shook his hands and wiped them against his pants, as if trying to get the blood off, even though they both knew it would take more than that.

"I thought they'd be able to handle it...maybe get a couple of cuts and scrapes, but I thought they'd take care of whatever they came across..." He looked back at him, shaking his head with a lost look on his face. "I never expected what happened that day, I never thought...when they got back, and I saw what happened to them...I didn't KNOW any better..."

"But you know better now?"

"Yeah, of course I know better now."

"And that's what matters. Sam, what you did, that was wrong to every possible degree. It cost a lot of good men their lives that day. But we learn from our mistakes, and we make damn sure they don't happen again. You've performed spotlessly since then, you- _we_- have moved past it. You know now that it's about the _unit_, not who's leading it."

Arnold nodded. "And that's why I want to go back out. If there's a snowball's chance in Hell that they're still alive, I want to be the one that gets them out."

"Then listen to me." Sullivan placed his hand on his shoulder. "We're going to fly in the head of the Umbrella forces in the field. The RIGHT leader. And we're going to beat every piece of information he has out of him. We're going to make him talk. And when we finally have everything we need, we're going in there and we're going to kill every single son of a bitch we can get our hands on. And when that comes, I will consider you a personal candidate for the job. But until then, get yourself and your men cleaned up. We're going to win this, Sam. We just need to use our heads."

He gave him a hard look to make sure he understood. Arnold understood. He did not like it, but he understood. He was not going to risk the lives of their men again; not like that. He was going to wait, and when the time came, he was going in to pull them out.

And God help the poor unfortunate soul of anyone who tried to stop him.

* * *

"Dr. Isaacs, sir," Wirtz came into the tent, telephone in her hand. "Call for you. It's Delta Command."

"What?" Isaacs tore his gaze away from the aerial footage showing their men pulling back to regroup for another push into the city. They were going to try and pinpoint the one who had attacked the U.B.C.F. Forces next; they had to have been weak, having endured the chopper crash and all. The other two were still missing, but it was only a matter of time before they were found as well.

He did not to tear his gaze away from the footage, as it was just too fun to watch. This call, however, alarmed him. His name had never been added to any lists regarding the U.B.C.S, he had made absolutely sure of it. So what was going on here?

"There must be a mistake. Nobody in Delta knows I'm involved here," he told her.

"Yeah, well," Wirtz held up the phone to him, "they know now."

Hand trembling ever so slightly (_Hopefully she won't notice_), he grabbed the phone and placed it to his ear.

"Hello?" he asked, trying to keep his voice under control.

"_Dr. Isaacs, this is Lieutenant Riley with Delta Command. We know you're the one firing on our boys. I hope you're comfortable over at your command post, because you're not going to be for long._"

"I'm sorry, but how did you-?"

"_We know. That's all you need to know for now. I suggest what you do is get on your helicopter and make your way over to our base. My captain wishes to speak to you. And with haste, please._"

"Well, I am sorry," Isaacs managed a twisted little half smile, "but I am far too busy in my research at the moment. Although, if you wish to speak to me so badly, you can always come here. We will treat you very hospitably."

"_I...Oh, hold on. Captain Sullivan just walked in the door. I'll let him know of your request._"

He could hear the voices, very softly, on the other end. The next thing he knew, there was a crash and then a very angry voice was on the line, a deep, commanding voice, that screamed so loudly into the receiver that Isaacs had to hold the phone away from his ear, allowing everyone to hear what the man was saying:

"_Listen to me, you little son of a bitch! I know what you've been doing, and I've got enough dirt on you to lock you up for a very, VERY long time! We know who you are, John Isaacs from Queens, New York, I am holding your file in my hand right now! Now, if your ass isn't on this base, in this room, by the end of the day, I am going to order a gunship mission in to blow out every single one of your buildings, and then a strike team to kill every single person that's still alive at the end of it! And then I am going to personally come in there and drag you out of your little hole, you sniveling little cuntbag! Now pull your thumb out of your ass and get over here before I REALLY start to lose my patience! Good-bye_!"

There was a click, leaving the room in utter silence. Wirtz looked at Isaacs, whose expression was blank.

"Um...he wasn't serious, was he?" She liked her job well enough, but in her mind, it was not worth dying over.

"I'm not sure..." Inwardly, Isaacs was terrified. _How did they know who he was_? Someone had to have ratted him out, someone in Umbrella's ranks. But who?

"I guess I should go and see what they want," he said, getting up from his chair.

"Sir, what if it's a trap?"

"Well," he said with a bit of irony in his voice, "if it's a choice between dying there on my own accord and getting dragged off to die on _their_ accord, I think I would rather go on my own two feet."

_Either way_, he thought grimly, as he headed out for his helicopter, _I lose._

* * *

Hughes and Greeno were just about to fire up their bird when Arnold came to visit them. The two pilots looked at him nervously, expecting him to completely chew them out, and indeed Arnold gave them both a hard stare, but all he said in the end was, "Give them hell."

Hughes nodded. He fully intended to.

The Delta Three sergeant stood back as he turned on his chopper. As the rotors fired up, he was instantly reminded of flying out two days before, with Delta on his benches and a conflicted feeling in his heart. He had thought it would be a simple assignment on his part; drop them in and guide them out. Now he was going out to find them and guide them out, and cover their asses at any point they needed. If he could find them. He had to find them. He was sure as hell not about to let them down.

As they took off from the landing pad and headed back to rejoin the pilots still holding the air perimeter, Hughes suddenly found himself smiling.

Umbrella made a pretty big target for themselves.

It was going to be a lot of fun when got to mow them down.

* * *

A couple more notes, because it occurred to me that I should have mentioned this before:

The Dr. Isaacs in this story is NOT the Dr. Isaacs from the Resident Evil movie series. I named this character before he became a key player in Extinction, and I remember hearing the name from Apocalypse but I didn't make any connection to a major character. So, just for clarification, this is a completely different Isaacs.

Also, as mentioned before, Captain Mackenzie is NOT mine, he is Ashen Tallaveran's, formerly Jamie Gartland's, who...well, actually, it looks like he's dropped the story from existence, so technically Mackenzie doesn't exist...well, he's still his, and I'm still going to go through on crossover ideas, if it be okay. If not, I'll figure something out.

And to be honest, I had completely forgotten about Hughes until I got to this chapter and realized that I should probably bring him back in. That's kind of bad when you forget about a character, huh? Well, he's back, and to make up for it, he'll have his moment before this is all over.

So yeah. I figured it would be appropriate to check back in on Delta Three, seeing as how it's been...wow, a couple years now since I've written about them.

Also, after next chapter, you can expect for things to start winding down. I'm not saying we're near the end JUST yet, but we're going to prepare for the end.

I don't know WHEN next chapter will be out, actually. It's going to go back to Shipley and Bielski, and it's going to be really big. But since I've drastically cut the number of stories I'm working on in half, I should promise something fairly soonish.

…Hopefully.

Well, anyway, I'm really happy with how this chapter came out, I hope you enjoy, read, review, favorite, and I'll see you guys next time. Peace.


	21. Last Stand

I have been waiting to do this chapter for a very, very long time.

It's gone through several different versions, both in my head and on rough draft paper, but this version is, in my opinion, the best. There were times where I wasn't sure if this chapter was even going to work, because I didn't know how people were going to take it.

The reason for that thought was because, as I'm sure you've all guessed this, the operators Jeff Shipley and Mike Bielski are based off of real life operators Randy Shughart and Gary Gordon, both of whom died in Mogadishu, Somalia in October of 1993, in the incident commonly known as _Black Hawk Down_. I wanted to do a chapter kind of to pay homage to them, because theirs was truly the most heroic tale of the whole ordeal.

And as I said, this chapter went through a lot of different versions. It started out almost as a complete scene-by-scene reenactment of the scene from _Black Hawk Down_, but as the years went by and the story began to draw in new ideas, obviously I decided this was too much of a mimic and probably wouldn't do much justice. My next major draft was to have them defend a warehouse from the Umbrella Special Forces, shoot from the windows, Bielski gets hit, then Shipley places C-4 on some gasoline barrels and, as he gets shot, he blows the place sky-high, taking as many with him as he can.

This idea worked better, but I still felt like there was something off. Then finally, in November, when I was playing Modern Warfare 2 Team Deathmatch on the map Skidrow, I suddenly got the idea to do it in a kind of urban guerrilla snipe-and-run hunter-vs-prey kind of chapter. So I re-wrote it, added new things, and this was the result.

This chapter is still a homage to the two Delta operators that died that day, and I hope people take it for what it is.

Enjoy

* * *

Chapter Twenty-one: Last Stand

Jim had never been more terrified in his entire life.

With Bielski carrying him over his shoulders and Shipley running right behind them as cover, and with bullets constantly flying over his head, it was all he could do to keep his focus just on the pain in his leg. That, and soiling his pants. There were so many different thoughts and emotions running through his head, and it was scaring him, and no matter how hard he tried to contain it all it was just too much.

Every once and a while they would stop, and Bielski would place him on the ground so that he and his partner could return fire. Just two or three shots at a time. They got their kills, three or four combined every time, then the sniper would hoist him back over his shoulders and they would take off again. They would run another fifty meters or so, then repeat the cycle, again and again.

After the sixth time of doing this, Bielski ejected the spent clip from his rifle and, stuffing a new one into the slot, turned to Shipley.

"We gotta get off this street," he shouted.

"Right. Head into the alley, we'll trap them in one of the houses."

They took a quick turn into the alley, making sure the lead soldier knew where they were headed. That was part of the bait. They needed him to know where they were going; just him, not so much his buddies.

Shipley kicked down the door and sidestepped to have his back against the wall, next to the door but out of sight to anyone coming in. Bielski came in and moved aside and placed Jim on the blue sofa, his head partially in eye's view of the door. The sniper took up a position at the back of the room, his rifle trained on the door as Shipley pulled out his 9mm handgun.

Sure enough, the lead scout, way ahead of the pack- probably a rookie- came barreling through the door, his MP5k at the ready. He took one look at Bielski, looking at him through the scope of his rifle, but never got enough time to even call to his men before Shipley placed the barrel of his pistol to the back of his cranium and mercilessly blew it away.

Jim jumped at the shot as the body, minus half of its head, fell forward so clumsily that it unnerved him. Shipley pocketed his gun and bent down, taking out some putty-like C-4.

"Rig it quick, they're going to be on us soon," Bielski told him.

"All set." Shipley grabbed his rifle, slung the enemy's MP5k over his shoulder, grabbed two clips, and got up. "Let's move."

Right as he was getting comfortable, Jim was hoisted up off the couch and dragged out the back door by the two operators. Shipley slung his rifle over his shoulders and clutched the detonator in his hands, thumb resting with itchy anticipation on the trigger.

They soon heard the incoming footsteps, and then heard one of the men give out a quick shout. That was all Shipley needed as an excuse to pull the trigger. The C-4, as small a quantity as it had been, was still enough to blow out the windows and cause a big fiery scene and make at least seven different voices cry out as they were blown into whatever side of the religious aspect would take them. Jim closed his eyes, but with the operators holding his arms he could not block out the screams, and hearing it was far worse than seeing it.

Shipley pocketed the remote and they were off again, and this time they knew that the Umbrella soldiers would be too busy to follow them. They would have to account for all of their dead and wounded before they would even consider doing another push at them. This would give them enough time to give them the slip, avoid them until they linked up with friendly forces again.

Though it would not hold them off forever.

* * *

Sergeant Hoss surveyed the wreckage from the Delta C-4 explosion. One of the U.B.C.S squads had turned into a messy pile of blood and bones; four dead, three injured, two of the injured looking like they would not survive the night. He had been dealing with casualties all the previous night and day, so he was used to it by now.

He had been tasked with locating Delta on the west half of town, but with the amount of zombies that had cropped up in this city his efforts had been focused more on keeping them at bay. It had not, of course, been easy. He felt like he had had to put more of his own men down than he had to put down the civilians in terms of zombies. Years of Umbrella had made him used to it- he had, after all, been in charge of clean-up on several major accidents, most recently being the Umbrella Training Facility- but four or five of them had been good friends of his, and that was never an easy thing.

There were two operators and a kid; that was what the one wounded man who could still talk through pain had said. Snipers, by the looks of them. The civilian was being carried by both of them, as he was supporting a leg wound; whether it was one of their bullets or a zombie bite was still undetermined. There was no report on the rest of the team's whereabouts, though the early scouts confirmed that there had been a break up between the four of them. They would put more effort into that search later, but right now, it was these two that were bothering him.

"Spread out and search, pairs or groups of four," he told his Special Forces men. "They can't have gotten too far. If you can capture one of them, do so, but if not, I won't hold it against anyone."

"What about the civilian?" One of the men wanted to know.

"If he's been bitten, shoot him. If not, take him. We can drive him to the collection center, have a doctor take care of him or something."

His men all nodded and went off to prepare themselves. Hoss looked back at the wounded soldiers, not feeling any particular care or concern. Special Ops cared more about their own men than the grunt mercenaries; that's why everyone called them "cold, lifeless robots". Well, if being a robot meant he got the job done, then he was C-fucking-3PO. He had a very low failure rate, and he intended to keep it that way.

He did not know what Umbrella's problem with Delta was, nor did he particularly care. A job was a job, and he was getting paid pretty handsomely for it. He checked his custom MP5k, making sure everything was working properly, and brought the stock to rest comfortably against his shoulder blade.

Two opposing Special Ops forces going at it. Both had training, experience, and skill. But in the end, only one side was going to be victorious.

Just the question of who, and when.

* * *

Jim bit down on the block of wood they had given him as Bielski gently pulled the bullet out with a pair of heated tweezers. The alcohol poured in was supposed to numb it, but he was feeling everything, and every bit of it was agonizing pain.

"There we are," the corporal dropped the bullet in a tin can and grinned at him. "You're gonna be walking with a limp for a while, but you should be alright if we get you back to a hospital."

Jim managed a bitter laugh. "Terrific. Now if we can just find a hospital not overrun by zombies."

They were holed up in a tiny little one-floor house. Both doors were blown open, and the window's glass had been shot out. Shipley was covering the window with his rifle, peering down into a long tunnel leading to a destination he would rather not know about. From the moans that were coming from there, he would not venture through if the pay was unbelievable.

"You know, you could have just left me there," Jim said as the operator began wrapping up his leg. "At least then you would still be with the others."

"Well, that wouldn't sit well with us," the sniper replied, and the grin faded off his face. "We don't leave people behind. It's not our thing."

"We left Travis..."

Now that they were in the clear and resting, Jim had time to reflect upon his best friend's last moments. He had always thought Travis was invincible; not in the sense that he had good survival instincts, but the fact that he somehow always survived in the most ridiculous ways. His death was a crack in Jim's bubble; if his friend could die, what hope did he have?

"We didn't leave him. We'll go back and get him before we leave," Bielski insisted, wrapping the wound with a bandage. "We take care of our friends."

"Amen," Shipley muttered grimly from his perch.

Jim smiled. He had a lot of respect for the two men at the moment. They were cut off from their team leader, being assaulted on all sides, and yet they still put the mission and their "package", as he had been referred to once or twice, over themselves. The heroism that leaked off these guys was remarkable.

"How long have you been doing this?" he asked.

"Since the Gulf War," Bielski answered. "We were supposed to go to Somalia, but we got to sit that one out."

Jim remembered the Somalia incident, though it had not been as widely-publicized as the Gulf War had been. It had only been five years ago, after all. All he really knew was what he had seen on the television; the bodies being dragged through the streets by crowds of angry Africans. He remembered his mother had been crying; he himself had felt a shudder when he had caught a glimpse at the television.

"Did you know any of those guys?" he asked. "The Delta guys?"

There was a pause in the conversation. Jim saw Shipley tense up. Bielski was staring at the wound, but not really staring at it, his mind somewhere else entirely. He wondered whether he should have asked the question and was about to apologize when the sniper snapped out of it.

"Yeah," he replied, finishing the wrapping. "Yeah, we knew them. Three or four of the guys who died were good friends of ours."

"Oh..." Jim almost bit his tongue to prevent himself from asking the next obvious question, but curiosity won the best of him. "So you-"

"Yes, we knew the two guys who died defending that crashed bird." Bielski gave him a cold, hard look. "Gary and Randy were the best guys we ever knew. They both deserved those medals they got."

"Okay...sorry, I was just curious."

The sniper stood up and went back to his equipment. He looked at his rifle- the customized CAR-15 with Red Scope, long barrel with silencer, and an extra magazine taped to the one in his rifle- and looked back over at the kid.

"Those two guys died doing what any of us would've done," he said, then he chuckled. "Jeff and I used to say that we'd be the next two to get the Medal of Honor...but in the back of my mind, I always tried to strive towards that goal. I hoped that, if I ever got killed...that I would've lived up to their legacy. So that at the end of my life, I would've done something that would live up to those expectations. Make them proud that we were carrying out their work for them."

Jim did not know what to say. He was speechless. Certainly he had always considered the men heroes, anyone who fought in the military had that bigger-than-life aura surrounding them. He had expected that, in some ways, some of them did want to be heroes. The reasons, though, were something he had only barely grasped. And at no point did he think it would be to make past comrades proud of them.

Shipley stood up, slinging his long rifle onto his shoulder.

"We ready to go?" he asked.

"Yeah," Bielski replied, looking out the window. There was a small courtyard surrounded by buildings to the right of their current position. A tiny playground, consisting of a slide, a see-saw, and a swing set with no swings, occupied the courtyard. Those play tools caused him to ponder, as he gazed at the gaping entrance to the east-side building. He glanced back at the window Shipley had been guarding and peered right at the stairway that curved around and lead into the second floor of the same building.

"Let's set up Claymores at the base of the slide and the see-saw," he said. "And place two on either side of the swing set. We'll hole up in the building above us and snipe whoever is left. Set up another Claymore at the top of the stairs inside in case anyone gets up."

"What about these stairs?" his friend wanted to know. "We'll have used up all our Claymores on the offense. What will guard our backsides?"

Bielski scratched his chin as an idea came to him. With a hint of a smile, he turned back to Jim, who had been scratching above his bandage, trying to assuage the itchiness that his wound was causing him without directly scratching the hole. It was not working. He gave up in annoyance and flopped back on the couch, and only then did he look up at the two operators staring at him.

"Sorry, I wasn't paying attention," he said. "What are we doing?"

* * *

Jim gulped as Shipley placed him behind the left arch of the entrance past the stairs and made sure he had a blanket covering him. This was a mistake. He was not a soldier, he just wanted to get out of here. How could he expect to cover a stairway against rushing enemy forces?

"Alright," Shipley pulled back the bolt on the loaded MP5k, released it, and placed it in the scared teen's hands. "You're good to go. I'll put these two clips here," he set them down next to him, "for when your clip's empty. Any Tango comes up the stairs and around that corner, you nail them. Don't fire more than two or three rounds at a time, we need to conserve ammo. Got that?"

"I...I..." All this terrified him. He could barely hold the gun in his shaking hands, let alone comprehend all the operator was telling him.

"Hey." Shipley clasped his shoulder tightly and gave him a hard stare. "We're depending on you here. We need you to watch our backs. If they get up these stairs, we're dead. I need to know that you can handle this, so can you?"

"I've never shot anyone before-"

"Sight in, breathe out, aim, squeeze the trigger. In that order, no mixing them around, you mix them around, you'll miss every time." Jim opened his mouth to protest, but never got the chance. "Look, kid, we don't have time to get into morality issues, okay? Men are going to be coming up those stairs, and they're going to be ready to kill you on sight. If you want to live, you will point that gun at whoever comes up, and you will shoot them. If you want to live, you have no choice but to man up, and do what you need to do."

He slapped him on the back. "Live or die," he said, as he stood up. "Your choice." And with that, he left for his position.

Jim sat there, alone, with a sub-machine gun in his hand and resounding terror in his heart. Now more than ever he had wished he had stayed in that closet; at least then he would not have to face a choice such as this. He wanted to live, but he did not want to kill. Zombies, sure, they were already dead, but not living people, no matter whose side it was on.

As it stood, though, he really had no choice. If he did not, they would surely kill him, and then he would never get out of this city; he would just be food for the undead. He wanted to live. So he pointed his SMG at the corner of the stairs, waiting for the forces that were sure to come.

He remembered what Bielski had told him not long ago, about doing his job for his comrade's legacy. He knew he could never be as brave as that, it was just not him...but he could at least try, right?

Somehow, the thought was not as comforting to him as it should have been.

* * *

Hoss lead his men down the alley and peered around the corner. There seemed to be nothing there; just a square of buildings and a little playground. But the Spec Ops soldier was on edge. If anyone was planning an ambush, he knew, this would be the ideal place to launch it.

He turned back to his men, a combination of mercenaries and Special Forces. About fifty in all. There were more, but they were further back, and he'd rather they stayed there; no point in all of their forces getting caught in an attack.

"Alright," he said. "Half of you stay in this building" _(Which, unbeknownst to him, was the same building their prey had just been resting and recovering in)_ "and keep an eye out. The rest of you, follow me."

They divided themselves up quickly. All twelve Special Forces and half the mercenaries would come with him into the courtyard while the rest of them would remain here. If worse came to worse, he could send two of them to get the reinforcements.

"Move out."

* * *

Bielski watched as the Umbrella forces slowly crept into the courtyard, about thirty or so. Twelve of them, he concluded by their appearance, had to be Special Forces. Like his team leader earlier, he had to wonder how Umbrella managed to finance all of these military groups, and for what purpose.

He looked at Shipley and began signing to him. Thirty men, creeping in, weapons at arm's length. Shipley nodded, keeping back with his rifle pressed upwards against him.

Bielski peered back down. The commando in the front- probably the leader- had turned and was waving his arm towards the building adjacent from where the snipers were set up. All twelve of his team broke away and climbed up the stairs inside, which disappointed the operator. Special Forces were tricky ducks; he had hoped to get them in the Claymore explosions. All of them were armed with silenced MP5ks, though, so he breathed a little easier; it was not as though they could snipe him with silenced SMGs.

He turned his attention back to the mercenaries moving on the ground, the remaining eighteen, moving carefully and at the same time walking without checking their surroundings. Their eyes were trained on the windows; none of them were looking at the ground, not even as they walked among the play tools.

Carefully, Bielski brought the stock of his rifle to his shoulder and pointed the barrel down at the lead scout. Shipley was pointing his rifle downwards now, standing further back so that his long rifle did not give away his position. Any minute now, someone was going to trip it.

One of the soldiers suddenly stopped to tie his shoe, just outside of the range of the Claymore by the see-saw. His eyes fell upon the yellow explosive, his eyes widened, and he instantly stood back up.

_Shit,_ Bielski thought, as he took his rifle off of his target and swung it up until the scope was aimed on the bomb.

The man turned his head to the rest of his team.

"Clay-!"

"_click" _BOOM!

Bielski shot the Claymore before the rest of the words could get out of the man's mouth. The mercenary was blown backwards by the explosion, his entire left side scarred, his eye blown out by shrapnel, his mouth blown apart with teeth shooting out. The two men near him were also hit and went down, one of them crying out for a medic.

Startled, a second soldier backed into the range of the Claymore under the slide. The blast blew the slide apart too, sending jagged bits and pieces of metal catapulting into standing mercenaries and mutilating spinal cords, ribcages, and kneecaps. One second, it was a crowd of soldiers, the next, a mass of blood and pain.

Three men broke to the right, near the swing set, and the combined force of both explosives planted there disintegrated them off the face of the earth. The one at the head of the pack, lost at how much confusion there was, looked up at the window as Bielski once again aimed his rifle at his skull.

The bullet from the rifle passed right through his brain before he could give an order.

Bullets tingled against the walls as the Special Forces units in the adjacent buildings began opening up with the MP5ks. Two of the surviving mercenaries had retreated back in with them, one holding an M-60 he had picked up from one of the dead men. Bielski watched as they set it up in the window closest to the stairs and got it set up, strafing the windows back and forth.

He ducked behind the walls as the bullets peppered through. They were not even letting up, no short bursts to conserve ammo. They were just going all out. Their loss, he knew, because once they had to reload they were dead men. And the way they were shooting through their belt, before long, they were forced to reload.

Shipley was quick as a jackrabbit. He poked out, aimed the scope of the rifle right at the primary gunner, and put a round right through his skull. His head seemed to explode as the velocity and power behind the shot forced straight through and out. His assistant, covered in brain matter, seemed to lose it at this and barreled out of the house and tried to make a run for it.

Both snipers finished him off, Bielski pegging him square in the back, Shipley shooting him in his side that ripped apart his spleen.

These guys were making it a turkey shoot. Even the Spec Ops boys were making this a cake walk. It just went to show that half-assed mercenaries could not compare to the top dogs; especially dogs that had been up at the top for quite a while.

He aimed his rifle into one of the windows just as a gas mask-covered head poked up and, smirking, he pulled the trigger.

* * *

Hoss had not expected something like this. The mercenaries had been wiped in under a minute; like cows to the slaughterhouse. He sat next to one of the team leaders as the snipers began taking their pot shots at them. He turned to him.

"Poke your head up, see where they're shooting from," he ordered.

The soldier nodded and peered over. Two seconds later, a bullet passed clear through his head and he fell backwards. Hoss cursed and tempted looking over himself, but thought against it. These guys were too good for that.

He gets on the radio and lets his men know to proceed along the backside and to rush in. Catch them quickly, less they all get mowed down as well.

* * *

Jim heard them coming up the stairs and instantly felt himself trembling from head to toe. This was it.

The first guy shot around the corner so fast that he barely had time to get a shot off, but the first bullet fired pegged the guy in the leg. He yelped and looked up, his eyes boring right into the eyes of the teenager. Jim's brain shut off. The finger hit the trigger again and three bullets slammed into the soldier's chest, one after the other, three loud SLAPS! that left large holes in the chest. The man jerked, dropped to his knee, and then fell backwards.

All at once, Jim's brain started working again and he realized what he had done. _Oh Jesus no..._He could not believe that had happened. He killed him. He knew he had to, but he had _done it_.

He did not have time to reflect on it for long, however, as another man came up with his assault rifle at the ready. All too soon, Jim's mind locked out again, and he fired off three quick rounds that hit his shoulder, neck, and arm. Again he dropped, tumbling back down the steps. Again, Jim's mind snapped back on and he looked horrified at the work he had done.

_Please, make it stop..._

But the mercenaries kept coming. With every one that came, Jim's brain shut down and the gun would fire, and when it turned back on, it left him gaping at another corpse. It was like there were two people living in his brain. One wanted to run away and never look back. The other one wanted to kill every single person that came up those stairs. And as much as he liked the first person, whenever someone appeared, number two would claim dominance and make sure that whoever was there was not there for much longer.

Before long, his clip ran empty, and he ejected the clip and stuffed a new one in. As he did, he spotted two men coming up, weapons ready. He slammed it in, pulled on the bolt, and raised it again.

The first soldier was hit in the gut and the chest and double over. The second soldier was pegged across his chest, shoulder to shoulder in a nice even line. Both fell forward as a third came up and threw a thinly-shaped grenade at him.

Jim's eyes widened and he ducked back behind the dumpster as it landed near him. Instead of exploding like a bomb, however, it exploded with a flash. He closed his eyes, but he could still see the white light through his eyelids, and a sharp ringing pierced irritatingly in his ears. Slowly, the white light dissolved, though the ringing remained even as he opened his eyes and saw the mercenary that had thrown the grenade standing over him, his pistol aimed at his head.

His brain locked down again and before he knew it his SMG had let off a burst and bits of blood and organ sprayed all over his face as the body collapsed in front of him.

_Oh sweet Jesus, make it STOP! PLEASE!_

Still more were coming, and he finished off the rest of the clip on them before he had to again reload. By now, he had gotten most of the Umbrella soldiers resting in the house they had escaped from before. The remaining soldiers were beginning to retreat, too frightened to end up like the rest of their team from what surely must be a trained soldier.

If they wanted to think that, Jim was more than willing to let them.

* * *

Hoss was furious as he watched the rest of the back-up team limp back to their positions, about a quarter of what they had been. Both snipers had been fixated on them the entire time; he had three more bodies of his own men to account for that. It had to be the kid. They were forcing him to watch their backs.

He glanced over at the stairs on the left side of the room. It lead into the alleyway; maybe it looped around? He would take a scout and see for himself. The rest of them...well, the beautiful thing about hired hands were that they were expendable. They would create a diversion while he went on his excursion.

He turned to the "leader" of the surviving men and began to give his orders.

* * *

More mercenaries had shown up, and now they were full out rushing them, trying to get to the floor below them. Shipley pegged two of them, but had the feeling that it was time to move. There could not be many more soldiers left, but there was always the possibility that more would come.

When the Claymore on the stairs suddenly exploded, that was all they needed. Bielski turned to him.

"Get the kid, we're moving out," he ordered.

Shipley nodded, slung his rifle over his shoulder and ran into the hallway to get Jim. He got to the dumpster and paused, shocked, to see the bodies of the mercenaries and the two spent clips. Jim's face was one of despondence, loss. He slapped his back.

"You did good, kid," he told him. "Now let's go. Time to move."

He slung the kid's arm around his shoulders as Bielski ran out the door of their perch and urged them on. They hurried down the opposite hall, out the back door, and back into the outside, where there was a fork, one path leading left to where the enemy was, one path leading elsewhere.

As Bielski lead the way out, two Special Forces soldiers suddenly popped up from the left, about to run past them, but the movements of the operators forced them to stop. Bielski raised his rifle and fired two shots into one of the men, both shots piercing his chest and stomach, throwing him backwards onto the ground.

The second soldier raised his MP5k and, quickly aiming down the sights, fired three quick shots rapid-fire..

There was an explosion of blood and flesh, and Bielski was thrown backwards, slamming into Jim and causing both of them to fall to the ground. Shipley shouted something, raising his M-9 and emptying the entire magazine into the soldier as he turned to run.. One of the bullets clipped the man's arm, but he got away otherwise unharmed.

"_BIELS_!"

Jim pushed himself out from under the fallen operator as Shipley dropped his handgun and knelt by his friend. He trained his MP5k at the entrance, not so much to stand guard as it was that, after taking a quick glance at the damage, he decided he would rather look ahead.

Bielski had been hit by two of the three bullets right in the left side of his neck, one right below the jawline, the other right above where the neck meets the shoulder. They both crossed at an angle to go right out the back of the neck. The first one had gone all the way through; the second one had an entrance wound but no exit wound, meaning it was still in there. Dark red blood was gushing out in squirts; Bielski was coughing and choking on his own blood.

"Hang on, buddy, I've got ya!" Shipley reached into his miniature First-Aid Kit and applied pressure onto the wounds. The blood just squirted out in higher spurts, causing Bielski to cough up more all over his face.

"_Fuck_...come on, I got ya, Mike..."

For Jim, he had no idea how much blood a neck could lose. Already there was a pool stretching to the door and down the stairs, and there was even more coming out. One look and he knew almost automatically that Bielski was a goner. To get shot in the neck with no doctor or medical specialist and already losing so much blood...how could anyone survive that?

He looked up at Shipley and saw from the devastated look on the man's face that he was realizing the exact same thing.

They were there for three more minutes when the choking noise finally ceased. Bielski's facial structure went slack. His mouth hung wide open, his eyes stared up at a sky that for him no longer existed. His leg gave a final jerk and his entire body went still. There was a sigh and then there was nothing.

They sat there for a moment longer. Jim could now not look away from the corpse, in disbelief that this had just happened. He had just been talking to this man barely an hour ago...and now he was dead? It did not make any sense...

Shipley stood up, gently laying the body of his friend down as he did, and looked around at the random garbage cans and cardboard pieces laying around.

"Help me cover him up," he ordered. "We're not leaving him out in the open for the zombies to get at him. We need to hurry and keep moving."

Jim just gaped at him. His partner had just died in his arms...and already he was talking about moving on? Could they not carry him with them? Sure, he was wounded, but he would walk if he had to, he had no problem with it as long as it meant they did not have to leave Bielski in this alleyway in the middle of Hell.

"Kid," Shipley's voice brought him back, and Jim could see the devastation written on his face and saw that this was not easy for him either. "We'll come back for him. But we have to get out of here first."

It did not feel right, Jim thought still as he helped cover him up. Just like it had not felt right to leave Travis in the middle of that street. Just like it had not been right to leave Kelly...but those had been outside of his control. Just like this was. None of this felt right. It all just felt like a bad dream.

Shipley took his friend's dog tags and picked up his rifle, checking the magazine as he did. Half a clip left. He slammed it back in and slung it over his shoulder with his M-21, then grabbed Bielski's pistol out of its holster and sticking it in the back of his belt while putting his own pistol back in its own holster. He made the Sign of the Cross over his friend's covered body, then grabbed Jim's arm and wordlessly carried him the other way, away from their enemies, somewhere safe.

But Jim knew that nowhere was safe. Not here. Not anymore.

* * *

Hoss grunted as the medic pulled the bullet out of his arm and dropped it in a tin can. He looked at it with loathing. That had been a bit too close to his liking.

He had been wounded before, of course, but that was when he had been a rookie. Being an experienced veteran and getting shot just sucked. The bullet had not even left much of a mark, but it just stung like an ugly mother.

At least he had plugged that one guy...he was sure that had been a kill, he had seen the blood fly from his neck. And he had shot first, killed his scout, so he had been every bit justified in killing him.

There was only one sniper left now...and there was no way one man alone could finish them off. That meant it was time to chase after him with everything they had. U.B.C.S, Special Forces, everything. If a B.O.W came along to help, fine by him. It was time to wrap this in the bag.

His radio crackled. He grabbed it and brought it to the mouth of his gas mask.

"Report?"

"_We're closing in on them, sir. They're hiding out in a truck depot. Plenty of zombies; they won't be getting out_."

"Good. Hold the attack until I get there. I'll lead it. Out."

Under his mask, a smile crept to his face. It was time to finish it.

* * *

Jim did not know what was worse- the moans of the zombies, or the shooting and shouts of the incoming soldiers.

"Here," Shipley kicked open a door leading into a small tunnel. "I want you to crawl down there and hide out until this is all over. I don't want you getting found."

"Wait, what about you?" He wasn't thinking about splitting up _now_, was he? The bullet hole in his leg screamed cusses like a trucker would.

"I'm gonna stay up here, try and peg off as many as I can..." He said it quietly, calmly, yet Jim's heart dropped a floor level when he saw him placing C-4 on the ceiling as well as two on the opposite sides of the beams facing him. It was as though he were setting up a trap.

"Shipley." For the first time, he had the courage to address the soldier by his name. "If you're planning on going down with the ship, you'd better think twice. If you get killed, none of us go home."

Shipley checked the magazine in his rifle; a full clip, but it was his last one. Combined with Bielski's it meant he had forty-five rounds left, plus his two pistols and the MP5k that he had relieved from the kid. He looked up at him, and the look Jim saw was not one he was used to seeing on the operator's face; it was a haunted sort of look, the look of a man who had nothing left to lose.

"You might..." he said. "If they get by me, and they see you without a weapon...I want you to let them take you with them."

Jim was flabbergasted. "You want them to make me a prisoner?"

"If they're this organized, they may be able to get out of the city. And if you can get out with them, then that ensures you survive. It's the only way I can see right now."

"Yeah, and what happens when they just throw me to the zombies?"

"They won't do that. Even though they're mercenaries, Umbrella still has to give safe passage to civilians, it's Geneva Convention. If they don't want to look any worse than they already do, they'll take you with them."

He could not believe this was happening. An hour ago he had felt relatively safe because he had been with these Delta soldiers. They were supposedly the best; they had maintained always that feeling that they could face anything they encountered and emerge from them. Now he was being sent off alone, one of his protectors dead and the other setting himself up to join him...and he knew now that he was not going home. The journey ended here. His story, and the stories of the soldiers with him, were going to end with this last encounter.

"Listen to me." Shipley, seeing the look of despair on the lad's face, bent down and firmly placed both hands on his shoulders. "You have _got_ to get out of here. Not just for me, but for _all_ of us. Your friends and mine. People need to know what happened here. The _world_ needs to know what happened here. Do _not_ let our deaths be in vain. This happened. You need to prove that it did."

Tell their story? Jim was not sure if he could do that. He was a writer, sure, but this was too great a tale. If he could, then he would...but could he, was the question, if this plan failed?

From outside, they heard the raised voices and shouts getting closer, then the sounds of gunfire as the forces outside began picking off the zombies. The pit in Jim's stomach dropped to the furthest bottom it could reach. It was time.

"Show time. I'll hold them off as long as I can." Shipley gave him one last pat on the shoulder and backed away. "Good luck, kid."

Jim watched sadly as the soldier returned to his weapons and grabbed his M-21. He sunk into the hole, going back as far as he could, knowing that this was the last time he would ever see the man.

Shipley took off his helmet for a second and gazed at all the names he had written down. His child...he had hoped that he would make it back to be a part of their life. Guess that was not going to happen. His only real hope was that his wife would remarry, so that she would not have to raise the child alone.

He stopped briefly, frowning. How the hell had he forgotten _that_ name? He quickly pulled out his marker and wrote down "MICHAEL" right on the front of his helmet, underneath his own name, "JEFFERY".

There. Now it was done. He placed his helmet back on his head, pocketed the marker, and again readied his rifle.

The mercenaries were the first ones up, the green-coated ones. They came at him from either side of the compound in front of him, one through it, the other along the side of it. Shipley quickly fired two shots, one in one direction and one in the other. and the front two scouts on either side went down with missing heads.

He quickly ran upstairs right as they started shooting and fired strategically. There were four wide-open windows to shoot from. He went to the middle-right window and fired five shots, each bullet hitting a soldier, either killing or severely wounding. When they got smart enough, he ducked down as low as he could, moved to the far left-hand window, popped up, and took a couple more shots. Every bullet he fired was met with a scream or just the sound of a pumpkin being smashed open as a head exploded. Every time they got wise to where he was, he would duck, pick a different window, and continue with his plan.

When his clip finally emptied, when his beloved M-21 had finally expired in its use, he threw it down, ran downstairs, and grabbed Bielski's CAR-15. He ran back upstairs and continued what he had been doing. His friend's rifle had been customized to a special degree; the long silencer barrel kept the muzzle fire limited, meaning he could stay in each position longer than he had. The red reflex scope was small and allowed for easier aiming, and the stock rested easily and comfortably against his shoulder as he fired. The only downside was that Bielski had already fired off half of the clip, so that the ammunition was done very quickly, and there were still a good number of soldiers and the Special Forces men out there.

When the second rifle emptied, Shipley grabbed a grenade off his vest, pulled the pin, and chucked it. It landed far enough from the soldiers that it only faintly wounded one of them. He ran downstairs to pick up the MP5k and as he did a bullet slammed into his left arm, leaving a large, bloody hole right in the central mass of muscle. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt physically, but he kept it together as he raised the sub-machine gun.

He fired off short bursts, making sure he pegged every single person he aimed at. He shot one Spec Ops operative in the chest, three rounds impacting and making little explosions as he fell to the ground. He fired five more rounds at another operative, hitting him in the hip, side, and side of the neck. The force of the bullets caused him to flip over in quite the amusing spectacle, going head over heels two or three feet in the air and then landing on his back.

He fired until his clip ran dry, and right as he heard the click of the empty gun, another bullet slammed into his right shoulder, again blinding him with pain. He bit down on his tongue as he threw the weapon down and pulled out both handguns on him.

He stood up to fire, and right as he did he felt his left shin bone explode as a third bullet blew it away. He cried out in pain as he fell to the ground, landing on his side so that he was still facing the entrance.

A Special Forces soldier jumped in and he shot him twice with his M-9. Then another one hopped in and he shot him once with Bielski's M1911. Every time someone came in, he would pull the trigger and blow them away. The M1911 ran out of ammunition first, having the smaller clip, and so he dropped it and focused his M-9 on the door. He fired and fired until he had fired off his final rounds just as another Special Forces specialist came in and raised his MP5k.

He fired off half the clip, and all fifteen rounds slammed into Shipley's chest, one after the other, going through his vest and peppering his chest. Shipley grunted in pain as his liver and kidneys exploded due to the force, his throat filling up with blood as his lungs were torn apart. The force of the shots turned him over and his back faced the operative, hunched over, unmoving.

* * *

Hoss smirked in pleasure as he watched his bullets hit their mark. He lowered his weapon and approached the body, chuckling loud enough so that, if by some miracle he was still alive he would hear him. Two of his men hopped in with him, their weapons still trained as a just in case, but the sergeant did not bother. He had won his hunt.

"So much for the Dreaded Delta," he said, placing his foot on the dead man's bent arm. "You're no better than the rest of those sorry suckers the government employs for them-"

He turned him over so that he could see the face, but was not expecting the eyes to be staring right back at him with a blood-covered smile on his face. The rat was still alive...and he was also holding something...looked like a detonator...

And that was when Hoss saw, too late, the C-4 charges planted on the ceiling and beams of the room.

Shipley let out a laugh through his bloodstained teeth.

"Outsmarted you, didn't I?" he hissed with pained satisfaction.

Hoss did not even have a chance to scream when the thumb hit the trigger and all he saw was a bright flashing light and felt nothing but pain.

* * *

The surviving soldiers outside had just begun to approach the building when the whole bottom floor exploded. Not a massive explosion, not one that brought the whole structure down, but it was enough that the intensity knocked a few of the soldiers in the front off their feet. When it was over, they just stared dumbfounded at what they had just fought so hard being reduced to rubble.

"What are you standing around for?"

One of the Special Forces teams had pushed their way to the front of the pack. These ones were different from the others, primarily in that they carried M-4s instead of MP5ks. The one in the front ordered three of their men to head for the tunnel while he took the rest of the men into the building.

It was a mess. The weapons were smashed and broken beyond any use. The two Special Forces soldiers were not even people anymore, just bits and pieces of meat and bone. The Delta operator was badly torn up too, but the look on his face was the look of a joker who had just gotten the last laugh.

There was a grunt and he looked down to see Hoss crawling towards him on his back. His legs were pretty much gone and one of his arms was badly torn up. He was taking raspy breaths through his gas mask as the new team leader stepped forward and removed his gas mask.

Hoss looked up into the cold blue-green eyes that stared back at him and grunted painfully. He was in so much agony...why did this new arrival have to mock him for it?

"Just end it already..."

He did not have to ask twice. With the mercy of a Nazi, former Delta sergeant Kimball calmly pulled out his Glock, pointed it downwards, and shot Hoss right in the face. The one good hand that had been propped up for support slumped onto the floor and moved no more.

Kimball pocketed his sidearm and looked around at the surviving Special Forces troops. A smile crept to his face without him even needing to control it. That guy had been in charge of all Special Operations forces in this city. Looks like that job now fell upon him. Why yes, he would take it, how very gracious of the dead man.

He looked at Shipley's body and made a ticking noise with his tongue. Poor bastard. He had been a hell of a sniper. Unfortunately, he had to be playing for the wrong team.

"Yo, Boss."

Amir came forward with the other two guys, and with them, in between them with one man holding an arm, was the kid. He looked like a broken doll held up on strings, and his busted leg just added to that. It might have been a bullet...then again, it might have also been a zombie bite.

"We found him hiding behind the trash cans in the alleyway," Amir reported. "Didn't even put up a fight. What should we do with him?"

Kimball lifted the kid's head by the chin so that he was eye to eye with him. The broken expression...it was like he had known that this was how this was going to play out. He glanced at the wound, and saw how clean it looked, even through the bandage. The bleeding had stopped a long time ago. Definitely a bullet wound. A zombie bite would have just kept bleeding until the subject bled out.

Well, that meant they had no justifiable means of killing him. And, Kimball supposed, they did not HAVE to kill this one. He liked to avoid collateral as often as he could, even though it could be fun every once and a while. And there was the Geneva Convention rules to take into consideration. The kid was not a threat. There was no reason to kill him.

"Stick him in that lieutenant's convoy," he ordered. "Have them take him to the civilian collection point. Whatever happens after that is none of our business."

His teammate nodded and motioned with his head to lead him to the vehicles. The other two did so, the kid's feet scratching against the pavement as they lead him off.

Kimball was about to put his mask back on, paused, then threw it aside. He was the Special Forces commander now. A commander should not be forced to look like his subordinates. He should single himself out from the pack. He should distinguish himself.

He should be their god.

* * *

Jim was tossed gently into the back of the flatbed truck after some discussion between the soldiers and a tall, broad-shouldered lieutenant. Now he was being driven around the city, away from the chaos he had just spent the last hour evading and enduring.

He did not know where they were taking him or what they were going to do to him. He did not care either. Nothing mattered anymore. His best friend and his two guardians were both dead and now he was certain he would end up the same way. He did not care anymore; let them do what they wanted. He was tired, hungry, cold, and his leg ached like nothing else; he was a defeated man.

He only hoped that the surviving members of their party could get out and tell the story that he could not.

He only hoped that they would survive.

* * *

One of the mercenaries was examining the ruins of the building. He kicked aside some rubble and was about to turn when something else caught his eye; a curved black-colored rock of sorts.

He bent down and picked it up. It was the Delta soldier's helmet, those weird small black helmets that looked like they would belong better on a skateboarder than a soldier. This one was a little different, though, in that there was writing all over it. It was hard to make most of it out, as the heat from the explosions had caused burn marks on it, but from what he could tell, they looked like names.

Now, this soldier was a recent recruit, and this was his first experience in a combat zone. The idea of taking home a souvenir with him, even one from a kill that was not technically his, stirred a feeling of excitement in his stomach. Besides, it was not like this guy was going to need it anymore.

"LaSalle!" one of his squad mates called out to him impatiently. "Let's go! The captain wants us to move!"

"Coming!" he called out, quickly stuffing the helmet in his overstuffed backpack and trying to zip it, but not having much success. After several attempts, he only managed to get it part way. That would have to do for now.

He slung the bag over his shoulders and took off to rejoin his squad, leaving behind what was quickly becoming another dead spot in an undead city.

* * *

I had a feeling, even four years ago when I was planning this story, that this was going to be the longest chapter thus far.

Looks like I was right.

So yeah. This was the chapter that had the most re-writes out of possibly any other chapter that I have ever written for anything. I really just hope people take it for what it is- a tribute chapter, nothing more, nothing less.

Next chapter FINALLY goes back to Delta Eight (I know, like, OMG!) so there's something to look forward to.

What else...oh, if you guys want to play me on X-Box Live...I'm recently retired from Modern Warfare 2 (I know, just in time for the new Stimulus Package, but there are just some issues with the game, my X-Box, yada yada), but if you want to play with me in Call of Duty 4 or Halo 3, as those are the two games I play predominantly on Live, my gamertag is SickSlickMan.

Just like my Youtube...only without that annoying ass typo.

Just keep in mind that A.) I'm not the best player in the world and B.) my school has the shittiest internet connection EVER.

So, with all that said, leave me some review love, and I'm Wesker888 and I'm peacing out. Later.


	22. Listening to Elders

And now, we finally rejoin Delta Eight. Sorry for the wait on that, I know there's one or two of you out there that really likes this team (believe me, I do too...hell, the main character is me, so of course I would like it), but there was a LOT of stuff I had to get done first, as you can plainly see by reading the last five chapters that I've put out between now and the last time we saw them.

Also, I just realized looking back at the older chapters, and for some reason, there are a lot of them that don't have page breaks. Like, almost every chapter before Chapter 16 or so, no separation between sections. And I know I put them there when I uploaded them, so I don't know why they're not there now, but it makes me feel like a fucking retard because people are going to get disoriented and confused.

So, if you're reading this and wondering why there are no breaks between sections...it's most likely FF's fault, and if someone who manages the site reads this, please, please stop fucking with my chapters so I don't feel like a noob.

Okay, so, with no more words wasted, here we go.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-two: Listening to Elders

Tom kicked the door open and immediately brought his CAR-15 to arms, keeping it ready for whatever was coming at him. When the way seemed clear, he lowered it partially and turned to look over his shoulder.

"I'll check upstairs, you two guard down here," he ordered.

Jackson and Nelson came in after him, with Daisy at their ankles. Nelson nodded and trained his MP-5; Jackson just grunted and sat down on the sofa, the dog sitting at his feet and looking up at him. Of the three of them besides her master, Daisy liked the machine-gunner over the medic.

Once the sarge was gone, Jackson placed his weapon on the couch and looked around. The place was a pigsty, and he was pretty sure that it wasn't just from the zombies. There was food, pizza boxes, soda cans, video games, DVDs, and all sorts of junk just lying around. The house had the air of a bunch of slackers; just another waste of time. He sighed.

"I'm really getting sick of this," he said.

"Sick of what?" Nelson asked, taring his glare away from the dog who had been staring up at him and panting.

"This. Crashing into every house we come across just because Sarge knows the inhabitants. Endangering our survival on the off chance that his drug buddies are still alive. He's putting his own personal problems before the mission."

"What 'mission', man? The only mission we've had since the LZ was get out alive."

"Exactly. He's compromising our mission with all of these side objectives."

The medic did not bother responding. The history between Tom and Jackson was a complex one, pitting the former's leadership skills with the latter's experience. Jackson had done airborne and Ranger time, whereas Tom had just gone through the training and made his way to command one of Delta's teams. He was a brilliant leader, though prone to mistakes, and Jax was quick to point them out. They were friends, they were comrades, but there was bad blood between them, and it had always put up a barrier, keeping them on opposite sides.

The problem was that they were both hot-heads. Jackson worse than Tom, although now that Cribbs was gone, the sergeant's temper had increased a little. Jackson, though, he had nothing to control him ever, and after a time he just tended to explode.

"Give him a break, Jax. It's not easy for any of us, least of all the guy leading us," he said calmly. "And it's not like resting here is going to be hazardous."

"No?" Jackson walked over to the window and grabbed the red panel that they had seen from the outside. "You know what this means? Red? It means 'Do not enter the house. You will die. Danger, danger, Will Robinson.' Does that matter? Not to Mr. Commando."

"His girl lives here, man-"

"She _dumped_ him, didn't she? We're really sticking our necks out for this broad who broke up with him and sent him his boxers in a _box_?"

Nelson shook his head. The machine gunner dropped the panel and plopped himself back onto the couch. His hand scratched behind Daisy's ears with a pondering look on his face. Nelson hated that look. It meant he was thinking, and the things he thought usually were not good.

"When we get out of here...IF we get out of here," he said, staring right into the dog's eyes. "I'm transferring over to another team."

"Aw, Jax, come on, don't do this-"

"I'm serious." He looked up and gave Nelson a hard glare. "I'm done. He wants to be a hero, I just want to live. I stay on this team, I'm risking my own life. If we get out of this city, I am done with this team."

The medic just shook his head.

"Fine," he said. "Do what you want. I'm not your fucking mother. Instead of fighting together, you're going to tear us apart-"

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit! You're sick of him too!"

"No, I'm _not_! He's our team leader, and I'm backing him up! That's what you do with a team, Jax. You protect each other."

"Funny, I remember Cribbs saying the exact same thing."

The silence hung there like a bad smell as the words left Jackson's lips. Nelson stared at him disbelievingly, hoping that he had not just heard those words but knowing that he had. Jackson said a lot of shit when he was riled up but this...this was going too far. Invoking the dead was not something the medic too lightly.

"You ever say that again," he growled in a low voice, "and I will personally see to it that you never work with us or any other team again. That's despicable that you said that."

He turned away despite Jackson looking like he was about to continue the argument. He felt the machine-gunner give up and turn away, ignoring Daisy as she whined and placed her paw on his leg. They were met with nothing but silence.

Until they heard a bump and a crash upstairs.

* * *

Tom creeped carefully around the house with his CAR-15 always ready. Stealthily he would push a door open, glancing around, looking for any signs of his missing friends.

"Anna?" he called out in a raspy whisper. No answer. "Kelly?" Again, no answer. "Jim? Travis?" No answer.

_Where the hell are they? _If they were smart, they were hiding somewhere else. Surely they must realize there was something unreal going on...he and Travis had played enough video games on zombies for him to be able to see the symptoms, right? Well, through the cloud of his drugs, he should be able to. But they were smart. They had to know there was danger.

Right?

Of course they were. Especially Anna; she was the smartest out of all of them.

He remembered the days when the five of them could just hang out. They had not been friends their entire lives, though they had been aware of each others' existences for a good portion of it. He had gotten to know Jim and Travis towards the end of middle school, and then in high school when Jim started dating Kelly, he was introduced to her social circle; Anna being among them. They did not date right away, but they were close, so it was inevitable when they did.

High school had been fun...but they all had to grow up at some point. He joined up, they all went to college. Anna dumped him, Jim stopped writing him, and he just...fell out of the loop. Life moved on and left him behind. He was off playing hero and getting left in memories.

If he ever found them, and they ever got out of here, he would do his best to make up for lost time. If there was a possibility for him to do that.

_Thump_!

He swirled around, rifle raised and pointed at the door to the bathroom. He paused a moment, to listen for any additional noises, but the only thing he could hear now was the sound of water pouring from the shower head. Regardless, something was behind that door, and he had a feeling it was probably not friendly.

Curiosity took the better of him as he took his left hand out from underneath the barrel of his rifle and reached towards the doorknob. His breathing was heavier than he would have liked it to be, and to his dismay he found his hand was shaking as his fingers tightened around the knob, turned it, and slowly pushed the door open-

A zombie burst out of the bathroom and charged at him, almost taking a bite out of his arm. He fell backwards, onto his back, and raised his rifle to pop off a quick shot at its head when he got a good look at it and froze.

The zombie was female, and completely naked. In life, she had probably been a very pretty girl, but now her skin was a pale gray and her lips were dark blue. Her dirty blonde hair looked as messy as ones would look from stepping out of the shower, and the steam pouring from the room indicated that the shower had been going on for some time. Her once blue eyes were now milk white and saliva dripped from her mouth, which was formed into a nasty snarl. On her right hand was a nasty bite mark, already discolored with infection. But the face, even though it was changed, was still very much familiar to Tom's eyes.

"Jesus Christ..._Kelly_?"

The zombie snarled and took a step towards him. Tom lifted his foot and pressed it against her bare stomach to push her back, but her hands grabbed his leg and held it firmly. He kicked and jerked as hard as he could, but Kelly's grip on him was surprisingly firm. Every time she leaned in to take a bite, he would try and push her off balance.

He raised his rifle to aim at her head, but hesitated. His mind told him that she was a zombie, that she would be in less pain this way, that he should take the shot, but his emotions got the better of him. This was his friend of several years, someone female who he could ask for advice when it came to his women problems. Even if she was technically dead now, how was he supposed to kill her again? It was Cribbs all over again, only worse. He had already put one friend to rest, how could he do it to another-

BAM!

Kelly's face exploded as the heavy caliber round passed through the back of her skull and out through the front, destroying everything. For what seemed like the umpteenth time, blood and brain matter flew all over the sergeant as the body slumped against his foot and then fell sideways, back into the bathroom, her feet sticking out at a bent angle.

Jackson lowered his Eagle and took a deep breath. Nelson stood behind him, his MP-5 trained on the corpse. Tom sat up, his blood-covered face fuming.

"_Why the fuck did you do that_?" he demanded.

The machine-gunner just looked at him with a dumbfounded expression.

"Oh, gee, Sarge, I don't know. Wow, that's a tough one..." He mock-pondered it for a moment, his voice and actions dripping with sarcasm. "Well, I mean, it MIGHT have been because _she was a fucking ZOMBIE_!"

"She was my friend!" Tom shouted, pushing himself back onto his feet. The sight of her broken legs sticking out of the bathroom frame burned in his mind, and he did his best to try and keep his eyes off it.

"Yeah, was. Until she became an undead chew toy, then she stopped being anything but dead."

"_Stop treating her like_-"

"Like _what_? Like a zombie? You're the one who pointed that fact out, Sarge! Remember? Right after you blew Cribbs' brains out the back of his-"

Tom suddenly threw his gun aside and head-first dived at Jackson, slamming him in the gut and knocking both of them to the ground. The wind was knocked out of the gunner as his sergeant grabbed him by his vest and slammed him back onto the ground twice, then punched him in the face.

"WOAH! Guys, knock it off!" Nelson slung his weapon over his shoulder and tried to break them apart. From downstairs, Daisy started barking.

Tom threw the medic off him and threw another punch, which Jackson caught. The bigger man headbutted him right in the nose, which resulted in a soft cracking noise. Tom staggered back as Jackson grabbed his vest and threw him against the railing, which cracked under the force. Before the sergeant could move, Jackson's hands were once again on his vest and pressing against him, almost forcing him over the railing.

"God damn it, _enough_!" Nelson threw them apart, but not before Tom saw the look in Jackson's eyes; that crazed, cold-blooded look of someone who was about to willingly commit murder.

"What the fuck is WRONG with both of you?" the medic demanded, looking from one to the other. "You're acting like a pair of infants!"

The two just glared at each other with more hatred than they had ever felt towards each other. Tom had never really hated Jackson, in truth, but now he felt like ripping his chest open and tearing his heart out. From the look he was getting, it looked like Jackson felt the same way.

"You guys need to knock it off. We're all friends here-"

"This guy is NOT my friend!" Jackson exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at his team leader. "He's just the guy who keeps trying to get me killed! How many more times is he going to take us into these situations until he finally succeeds in getting ALL of us killed?"

"What are you saying?" Tom demanded, feeling the anger start to get out of control again.

"I'm saying, if it wasn't for you, Cribbs might still be here-"

"No!" Nelson exclaimed, as he kept his sergeant from charging the gunner again. "Let's talk this out rationally-"

"Cribbs was dead the minute he was bitten!" Tom yelled, fighting to get out of the medic's grip. "There was nothing I could have done to prevent that! Nothing ANY of us could have done!"

"Oh? And what about the other twenty times he was bitten? Remember, when you dove down the stairs to save your precious picture of that _bitch_-"

"_Don't you fucking call her that_!"

"You see? You see how quickly you defend her? _SHE DUMPED YOU_! _Get it through your fucking head_!_ She doesn't want you anymore_!"

Tom broke out of the hold and slugged his teammate right in the jaw, knocking him back to the ground. He rubbed his jaw and glared back up at him. A dead silence hung over them, as even the dog stopped barking downstairs. Nelson just stared between the two of them, too stunned to do anything.

"I'm off your team when we get home," Jackson finally said.

"Good," replied Tom. "At least that's something we agree on."

He turned and opened one of the doors to the bedroom as Nelson helped Jackson to his feet. Already the spot where the fist had connected was turning purple and swelling.

"You didn't need to do that-"

"Shut up." Jackson glared at him. "Just shut up, man."

Tom returned with the covers from a bed and threw them over the corpse of his one-time friend. He stared down at it for a minute and in his mind he wondered if he should do more. Kelly was an atheist, but it still felt right to pay her tribute...but no. Not here, not now. They had to focus on other things. There would come a time for that, when all this was over.

"Alright, let's move," he ordered, pushing past them without another glance at either them or the body. Nelson threw Jackson another look and followed after him, while the gunner followed laggardly behind.

* * *

Things had never felt as quiet, as awkward, as they did on that long hike down the street. Nelson, walking middle and behind his two teammates, kept looking from one to the other with a worried expression, keeping alert in case they finally decided to kill each other. As random as it would be, he remembered one time, on a long deployment, where a guy snapped and killed two guys in his squad without so much as a word passed between them. There had been no warning, no prediction. He had just done it, clear as day.

While he was certain his sergeant would never do that (unless rage had pushed him that far across the line), Jackson was another story. Jackson's short temper got him into a lot of trouble. Death threats were never issued, but in all the time they had worked together, Nelson could never be sure around him.

Daisy was in front of him, probably the only one oblivious to any dangers, both the ones presented from the undead and each other. The dog had grown on him, though he would be hard pressed to say that she had won him over. But she had a dog sense like nothing he could ever hope to perfect for himself. She could sense undead from a mile away, and anything else she could sense almost instantly-

Like right now, he realized with cold suddenness, as he watched her stop and her ears pick up. She then growled, and barked, causing all three of them to stop dead in their tracks. They all crouched, weapons ready, ears trained and listening for noises.

Which proved to not be that hard. The loud reptilian roars could be heard from miles away, and the distance was far less than that. Nelson remembered those roars from just the other night; they belonged to those things that had attacked them at the barricade house.

_Shit_, Tom thought, as he used hand signals to usher his team into one of the houses. Those things were tough, and they did not have the mental strength to deal with them right now. Better to hide and live to fight some other time.

Jackson kicked open the door to one of the houses and stepped inside. Nelson moved over and took a knee by the door to cover as Tom used the bag of dog treats to lure Daisy in after them. When they were all in, he closed the door and secured it as tightly as he could, then took his place by the right-hand window with Nelson while Jackson covered the left-hand window.

It was a pack of three of them, though different than the ones they had encountered before. These were somewhat smaller, not much more than the previous ones, and their color was more of a black-and-blood-red. Their faces were, if possible, even more hideous, and their claws were, if possibly, even more deadly. They were moving fast, and one hoped on top of a car to gain momentum, the vehicle becoming a smashed pancake under its feet.

Tom watched them go with a mixed fascination. He shook his head.

"I just don't get them," he said, his voice a low whisper.

"I think that's the general idea," Nelson whispered back. "I can't even begin to fathom how they were created-"

"No, not that, I mean..." the sergeant watched as one of the creatures stopped to sniff the air. "I understand the zombies. I even somewhat understand the zombie dogs. But I don't understand these things. I must have seen every zombie movie and read every zombie story from the last twenty years or so, everything related to the zombie apocalypse, and none of them said anything about giant lizards and creatures with razor tongues. So what the hell are they doing here?"

In Nelson's opinion, the bigger question was, "What the hell WERE they?" But he could see the sergeant's point. The whole zombie apocalypse bit, as fucked up as it was, it moved like a zombie apocalypse would be expected to move. But these things...they were on a whole different level.

"Who cares what they are?" stated Jackson, his gaze following as the creature sniffing moved on to catch up to the other two. "We avoid them long enough to get out of the city. Simple as that."

Nelson could see Tom tense up, but he said nothing. The problem was with what came after they got out, and what would become of the city. The obvious solution would have been to nuke it, but he knew his team leader would be against that. He wanted to get all the survivors out. The problem was, at this point, with this being the third day, the chances of any civilians being alive were slim to none. Everywhere they went, all they found were bodies and undead.

At this point, he felt that the survivor count had just about run is course. If there were anyone else still out there, they had not been found yet.

"_clink"_

All three pairs of ears (four including the dog) picked up at the noise. The sound of a plate being put down on a hard surface- someone eating?- coming from a door on the right side at the end of the hallway.

Tom raised his rifle back up and slowly inched his way down the hall towards the door. Behind him, Nelson and Jackson did the same, their weapons pointed towards the door with tight hands. Daisy weaved in between them, curiously sniffing the air at the smell of whatever was on the other side. She was probably the only one unaware of the real danger behind it; the rest of them were edgy, nervous.

Tom took his left hand off the barrel grabbed the doorknob and looked at the other two. Nelson nodded; the sergeant pushed the door open and stepped inside, weapon ready-

The room was dimly lit by the fire well-managed in its fireplace. Pictures lined the walls, of a family that was probably out among the undead with no memories of their former life. A big red armchair was facing the fire, the back to the door so that they could not see who was sitting in it. Next to it was a small serving table, and as they came into the room they saw a hand reach for the glass on the table and bring it to its owner.

Right as Tom took a step towards the chair, a low raspy voice said, "Well, come in. I don't bite. The zombies do plenty of that without my help." This was followed by a wheezy laugh, as though he found himself to be funny.

The three men looked around at each other, skeptical. "Do we go in?" Tom whispered.

"It's quite alright, Sergeant Horan," the voice replied again. "In fact, I would advise that you, Mr. Jackson and Mr. Nelson step in while the remainder of the Hunter pack goes by. There are still four more following behind the three you just saw."

Tom instantly raised his CAR-15 and aimed it right where the man's head was. Nelson and Jackson did the same thing. The man made no movement or even acknowledged that three trained commandos had weapons trained to his head. But he knew he had freaked them out.

"How do you know our names?" the sergeant demanded.

"If you come in, I can explain," the voice answered. "And close the door, please. I'd rather not let the Hunters in."

Nelson closed the door after a look and a nod from his team leader. Tom lowered his weapon as he took another step forward, while Jackson still kept his machine-gun trained on the back of the stranger's head. With a quick inhale of breath, he moved slowly to face the other side of the chair, to see finally the man sitting in it.

He was a small, frail man, age ranging anywhere between his late sixties and early eighties. His hairline was receding, his nose was crooked, and his jaw was clenched. His left hand was clutching the wine glass as if clinging to life, and his right hand was turning the nozzle on the oxygen tank that was feeding air through the thin tube going into his nose. But the most disturbing feature were his eyes; they were all-white, any pupils that were once there having been dissolved into the milky abyss that had taken over.

As he looked up at Tom, he did a bit of a double-take, which further confused the sergeant. Then he smiled.

"Ah," he said. "Forgive me. I almost didn't recognize you without the scars."

Tom frowned. "What scars?"

The man laughed. "You'll find out." He glanced over his shoulder. "Step in, gentlemen. And don't worry about the vase."

"What vase?"

Jackson turned around on his left to look for it, and his radio swung right and clocked the table upon which the vase was sitting on. The glass object tipped over and toppled to the floor, smashing to pieces as it hit the ground.

The old man laughed. "That vase."

"Aw, shit, um..."

"I said not to worry about it. Come sunrise, it's not going to matter much anyway."

Nelson threw a confused look at Jackson, who returned it as he lowered his machine-gun somewhat hesitantly. This guy sounded like he was whacked out of his mind, but he knew their names, and that was a strict breach in their unit. If he knew who they were, what else did he know?

"Who told you about us?" demanded Tom again.

"No one did."

"Then how do you know who we are?"

The old man turned the knob on the oxygen tank and took in a deep breath with a pained smile. He did look like he was in agony, Nelson observed as he looked closer. His eyebrows were furrowed and his breathing was very raspy, as if he had to really try to breathe. Whatever it was, it probably was internal, or so he could assume off a quick medical diagnosis.

"One of the problems of working with Umbrella," the man went on to say, "are not the experiments themselves, but the finished result. Yes, you may end up with the ability to see the future or know the past, but is it worth the pancreatic cancer that comes with it? I hardly think so..."

He took another deep breath. Tom rested his CAR-15 against the wall and sank down to his knees so that he was level with the man.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

The man took another sip from his drink, a longer one, then lowered the glass again and made a noise to clear his throat.

"How much do you know...about the Arklay Mountain incident last July?" he asked.

Jackson and Nelson finally stepped forward at this, ears perked up. Tom had received a letter from his parents back in the beginning of August, something about an incident in the mountains near town There had been very few details; they weren't even sure if much knowledge had been made to the public. Rumors and scuttlebutt went around, of course, but they were just that. If there was a connection, though, between then and now...

"Not much," Tom replied. "Almost nothing. Something about an explosion, but that's about it."

"You've lived in this area for quite some time, correct?" He nodded. "Right. Then think for a moment. Where in the mountains would there be an explosion? What is up in those mountains that would warrant a disaster like that?"

"Um..." Tom scrunched up his face to think. As a child he had hiked up the mountains a lot with his summer camp group. They hiked many trails, and there were a few camp huts here and there, but those would do nothing to cause a disturbance. Other than that, there were no...wait, there was one, but-

"The only place I can think of is the old Spencer estate," he said, turning back to the old man and shaking his head. "But that got abandoned years ago, there shouldn't be anything to disrupt it-"

"Did they?" the old man raised an eyebrow. "Or did it only appear abandoned?"

"As far as I know...why, is that not it?"

He looked over at his two teammates, who looked just as perplexed as he must have looked. He knew very little of the Spencer estate, and what he did know was decade-old knowledge. It had been a long time since he had even thought of the abandoned mansion. His parents never really told him anything, and it wasn't like it held any historical value that he would have learned about it in school. Teenagers from school would sometimes dare each other to go up there and spend the night in its rooms, though he could not recall if anyone had ever had enough stones to actually do it.

The only reason he even knew about it was because of his grandfather, who knew the owner of the building back in the day. If he ever said anything about him, though, it was long since forgotten by time and experience.

The old man had mostly finished with his food, but he still had some grapes, which he popped into his mouth one after the other, chewing them very slowly. He ate three before he finally spoke to them.

"In the sixties, during the mid-point of the Cold War," he told them, "The owner of this house and two of his associates discovered a particular flower in Africa that, when analyzed, produced a virus capable of wiping out entire villages. The three then decided to fund a company that would allow them to further continue these experiments. This was the beginning of the Umbrella Corporation; the three men were James Marcus, Edward Ashford, and Ozwell Spencer."

Jackson raised an eyebrow. They knew this stuff; a lot of the history of Umbrella was common knowledge, at least, to the government and the military. Though that business with the flower was something new...

"They needed a place to perform their experiments. Raccoon City was isolated enough where they knew that conducting their research without disturbance. So Spencer hired George Trevor, the old architect, to construct the mansion way up in the mountains-"

"Oh, I remember that," Tom said suddenly. "The architect was friends with the owner, wasn't he? Then he and his family disappeared not long after. That's one of the old stories."

"Jeez, this really is a hick town," Jackson muttered to Nelson. "They even swap ghost stories-"

The medic elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to double over as the sergeant gave him a stern glare. The old man laughed.

"There is some truth to every ghost story, Mr. Jackson," he said. "You just need to look hard enough.

"Yes, the Trevor family disappeared. What many don't know was that they disappeared within the compounds. For beneath the ground level of the mansion, Spencer had built his research laboratories set up for his viral experiments. The Trevors were his first experiments.

"After that, they extended their research to be underneath Raccoon City. Testing continued with not just the T-Virus, but with various other experiments that never fully paid off. I was one of those experiments; I was a head researcher that volunteered for their psychic experiments; I ended up getting cancer and being laid off without a service package. If anyone ever tells you that Umbrella takes care of their employees in the future, well, you just remember me."

He laughed again, amidst the confusion of the three Delta soldiers that had no idea what he was talking about. Umbrella was a pharmaceutical company; yeah, they conducted experiments, but it was for their medicines, were they not? Never had they read anything in any reports about any sorts of experiments involving psychic powers or a doomsday flower.

"This flower...what does it do and and what are the effects?" demanded the sergeant.

"You've seen it," was the answer. "You've experienced it. You've fought it. It is surrounding us, right now, as we speak. The doctors found a way to combine the chemicals found in the plant with leech DNA to create a virus that can reanimate dead tissue cells...and brings the dead back to life."

All at once, the words from the Umbrella captain at the LZ floated through Tom's head. He had not thought about it at all since the battle, but now he remembered the captain's words on an incident in...in their facilities, had he said? He had pushed all that aside when faced with the zombies, but yes, it all made sense, did it not? Well, not the part about the actual zombies, but Umbrella being connected...

Was Umbrella really working on viral experiments? Were the zombies outside really their fault? And- and this thought sent a cold shiver spiraling down his spinal column- if they have the power to bring the dead back to life, what ELSE were they capable of doing?

"Why is this all blowing up now? We've been getting reports from as early as May that there were attacks-"

"The epidemic was slowed slightly when the S.T.A.R.S forces destroyed the Spencer Mansion last July. But it was not enough to keep roaming zombies from the mountains from attacking the civilians in the city. And then when the incident down below made it top side, there was no escaping it. Raccoon City was doomed the moment Umbrella set its eyes on it in nineteen sixty-eight."

"So...the civilians that have gone missing or were ripped apart...the attacks...Umbrella's behind all of it?"

"As much of it as one could possibly be behind it. Though it was accidental, how it happened, but nonetheless, Umbrella has tried to profit off of it by using Raccoon City as its testing ground ."

"And we're the test subjects." The knowledge of that brought a cold sinking feeling down the back of his neck. Umbrella had requested their help, as well as the police...had they set them up?

"Not for the experiments." The old man looked at him gravely. "Once Umbrella realized you were in the city, they decided it was best that you go up against their soldiers. Special Forces and mercenaries. The zombies are just for the police and any additional survivors."

"Wait woah woah," interrupted Nelson. "They were helping us out at the LZ. They're on our side-"

"Maybe then, but not now. They're searching for you. Their orders are to open fire on sight."

"Why? What did we do?" Jackson asked nonplussed.

"You became the biggest threat Umbrella has faced," answered the old man. "Almost all of the police force was wiped out in the initial assault. But members of the Delta force survived, and are still surviving. You have proven that you can stand your own against a horde of zombies. And Umbrella fears that, because of how close to the government you stand. You pose a serious threat."

"Do we now..." The gears in Tom's mind was spinning. If they were threats to Umbrella's plans, then they could use that to get some payback, if needed. They would need proof, though...Sullivan would back them on it, probably. Hopefully. It was Umbrella, though, and they WERE powerful, but if what this man was saying is true, then this could get them in a lot of trouble.

First, though, they actually had to get out of this city. If they died, then what Umbrella may or may not have done did not matter. They had to get out of this city.

"Do you have any proof of this, old man?" he asked. "Where's the proof stating Umbrella did this?"

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that." The man smiled. "Let's just say you're not the only ones who have been investigating Umbrella's personal affairs."

And what did THAT mean? Was someone else still alive in the city? One of theirs, perhaps? Tom had long since given up hope that anyone was still alive, but now...there might be a chance that they weren't the only Delta soldiers alive.

"How do we get out of Raccoon?" he asked next. They needed to get out now.

"Right now...there is no way," the old man replied, finishing his wine. "In a few hours, however, an opportunity will present itself."

"So we've got to stick around for a few more hours," Jackson said, hoisting up his SAW. "I think I can manage that."

"Assuming they make it easy for us," Nelson agreed. "I mean, how tough could a bunch of mercenaries be?"

Plenty tough. Tom knew that most mercenaries were former soldiers themselves. A lot of them had probably done serious prison time. Organized they were a dangerous entity. But not as dangerous as themselves.

They needed to move, though. It was not safe where they were. The old man would have to come with them; Jackson would not like it, but it was not like they could just leave him here for the zombies and the...Hunters, did he call the lizards? Suited them well enough.

"Alright." He stood up. "We're gonna move out, find a safe place to hole up and wait for extract. Nelson, help him move-"

"Oh, I'm not going." The old man sat further back into his chair as if to prove his point. "My time is almost passed. You really think I can move, with cancer and an oxygen tank to slow you down? No, I would only be an additional burden."

"Sir, we can't just leave you here-"

"You have a mission to fulfill. Believe me when I say that Umbrella's ranks will not fall overnight, even when you succeed in getting out of this city. It will be several years before the world may finally be rid of the company's deeds. And it is going to need you and all the help it can gets."

_Years_? Jesus Christ, Tom was just trying to look at his time in terms of _hours_. Now he had to think of enduring this for _years_? The only thought on his mind right now was to get out of the city. Period. Whatever happened after that happened. This was not the time to be thinking past today into the future.

He looked down at the old man with conflicting emotions. He did not want to leave him, as forbidding as he was. He was a civilian, and their orders were to save every civilian they came across. True, the man was technically already dead, but that was no excuse, was it? They were soldiers with a job, and he was a part of that job. They could deal with the pacing some way or another...

Seeing the look on his face, the old man smiled.

"I don't have much time," he said. "And what time I do have I would rather spend on my chair, at rest. I'm a goner however you look at it. So please, don't be troubled. Allow me to leave you some parting words, and then be on your way. The other two can wait in the hallway."

They understood what that meant; what the man had to say next was for Tom's ears only. Nelson grabbed Jackson's sleeve and pulled him out into the hall. Daisy followed them out, having been amazingly calm during the entire thing...and he realized that they all had been. There had been no shouting, no argument between them for the first time in hours. It unnerved him for a second. What other powers did this man hold?

"You play an important role, though you do not yet realize." The old man was speaking now, and he snapped out of his thoughts to pay attention. "You are here at the beginning...and you will be there at the end. You will be one of the strongest fighters in the fight against bio-terror...both physically and emotionally..."

The sergeant's face was a mix of confusion, anxiety, and skepticism. This guy was making him out to be the next savior of mankind, and that just was not him. He did only what was necessary to keep his men safe and the world safe, but he was no hero. He was no savior. He was a soldier.

"I see the doubt on your face," the man laughed. "But your service will be greatly appreciated. You have a deeper connection in this than you know."

The crypticness that he was emulating was rather frustrating, he had to admit. He was having enough trouble dealing with the idea of this man seeing the future or whatever he was doing. It was hard for him to believe that just three days ago the biggest concern on his mind was dealing with the break-up. And now look at where he was.

"Is it so hard to believe you will do great things?"

"Sort of," he admitted. "I'm a regular guy, mister. I was never the most well-known in high school."

"Understandable. But it will come naturally. And..." the old man glanced over his shoulder towards the door, then looked back. "And don't worry about Mr. Jackson. It will be resolved."

Tom felt his shoulders tighten up at this. He knew he should not be surprised; if this man knew their names without them telling him then, then he would know of his rivalry with Jackson. Bringing it up, though, was something he did not relish.

"I understand that you are having a falling out. But before this is over, I promise you, you two will reach an understanding. A time will come when you will make the decision to save his life. And by choosing to do so, you will strengthen the bond between the two of you."

_Somehow, I doubt that, but thanks anyway_, Tom thought bitterly. But the sad fact was, at this point, it would be very unlikely if they ever worked together again after this catastrophe of a mission. It would be a miracle if they did.

He finally stood up and grabbed his rifle from the wall, looking down at the old man. Again, his reservations about leaving him behind was keeping him from leaving, but the old man nodded insistingly.

"Your men need you."

"You knew we were coming," Tom said, the last thing he wanted to get off his chest. "You stayed here because you knew you'd meet us here."

"I knew you would be forced my way. And I thought this would be information you would need to know. What you do with it will be up to you."

What they did with it...that would be something they'd have to figure out.

"If you would be so kind, could you hand me that blanket near the windowsill before you leave? I'm suddenly feeling drafty." His eyelids were starting to droop, and Tom wondered if that meant it was his time to sleep or...

The sergeant smiled a little as he crossed over to retrieve the blanket and laid it across the man's chest. It was the least he could do for someone dying of a cancer he should not have had, to die in a city that was his own company's fault. Even if the information given to him only made half-sense.

The old man gave one last smile to him as he slipped off into his deep sleep.

Tom waited just to be sure that he was indeed sleeping and not quite dead yet, and then left, closing the door and locking it behind him. Let the man die in peace, he figured. No point in letting the zombies come for him.

His two men were waiting for him out by the door, waiting to move. He and Jackson shared a share that was still laced with bitterness, but the old man's last words still hung over his head. He did sincerely hoped that, by the end of the night, things would get better for all of them.

"Alright," he said. "Let's move it out."

The road was just as devastated, just as zombie-filled, as it had been before. But crossing it now, Tom's head swam with different thoughts and ideas, and looked straight ahead for a future that for all he knew was starting right at that very moment.

* * *

I feel like I've just posted my Deus Ex Machina of chapters. And I'm not entirely sure how I felt about that. I feel like it came out decent enough, though, so lemme know what y'all think.

And I'll see you guys next time.


	23. Shootout

**Yes, this chapter took a long time. But I swear, I have a legitimate excuse this time. Over the course of the last year, my laptop has suffered numerous problems, from the hard drive getting wiped to the motherboard crashing to the processor frying. Problem after problem that have prevented a chapter that COULD and SHOULD have been finished long before now from getting finished.**

**At any rate, here it is now. Enjoy.**

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three: Shootout

The street was bare and empty, and so there was nothing and no one in its path. The zombie lurched forward, down the street towards the convenience store. Its arms hung arched at its arms, its legs stiff and straight as it stumbled towards the spot where it heard the noise. Its cold dead eyes trained straight ahead as it let out a low-pitched moan-

BAM!

The bullet went straight through the middle of its skull and came right out the back, leaving a large hole out the back. Everything that had been on the inside was now on the outside and splattered onto the ground, almost as a wet cushion for the body that landed on it after a slight delay.

The street was once again met with quiet.

On the roof of the store, Foley peered up from his sniper rifle at the location of his target. He grinned, licked his thumb, and stuck it up in the air, then returned behind his scope.

* * *

The three Delta soldiers inside looked up at the sound of the shot. Jones shook his head.

"He's going to draw a lot of attention to our spot," he noted.

"His fire will let us know if anyone else is coming," his team leader replied. "If something big comes, we'll have a warning."

They had set up the store as a comfortable living arrangement, as they planned on staying there long enough to catch their breath. The aisles were rearranged so that there was no room in the middle of the room for them to sit and eat. They had taken one of the grills and lit a fire in it so that they could keep warm, and had laid down their sleeping mats, as it seemed likely that they would be getting their shut-eye here. Under ordinary circumstances, it seemed like a good enough place to rest; however, there was very little doubt that none of them would be getting much sleep.

"Look at this," Connors suddenly said, pushing one of the notes in front of Jones' face. "Virus gets dumped into the shark tank, the sharks get infected, break the tanks, the whole ring gets flooded and feed the roots of a plant, enlarging it, and as a result they shut down the entire building. How the hell does that _happen_?"

"I've seen it," snapped Jones, pushing the papers out of his face. "I'm more curious as to where the hell did they manage to get a shark tank and fill it up with sharks, and how they managed to get it into the mountains."

"The how isn't really too hard to wrap your head around," Bradley said sullenly, his eyes fixated on the reports of the large man-creature labeled the "Tyrant". "Especially when you read about the bigger stuff."

Just how far had Umbrella planned to take this research? How much had they already done? That was what plagued his thoughts, not the papers that stretched before him or their ever-dangerous predicament, but the thought that outside of this danger zone the corporation had something else, something worse brewing.

And he had a feeling that if they did not get out soon, Umbrella would have a chance to show just how much they had accomplished.

* * *

Foley took a sip from his soda can and relaxed. Now was the easiest part of the night for him; just sit back, let them come to you, and plug them in the head. Pop goes the weasel. This was what he was used to, the kind of detail he could perform flawlessly. Down in the street moving about there was not much his rifle could do, down in the tunnels there was not much his rifle could do, and he felt for most of this mission that he was becoming useless. Up on this roof, it was easy pickings. He was earning his pay now.

This was not so bad, he thought. A few near misses here and there, but otherwise things had been just fine on their end. Almost perfect, actually. The fact that they had gone three days without a casualty in a zombie apocalypse was far too lucky, even by their standards. And yet, he still was not feeling that impending feeling of doom at their luck. The situation was bad, but they were handling it fine.

He felt like he was going to make it home. All they needed was to get in touch with command and wait for evacuation and they would be a-OK-

He froze, eyes fixated straight down the road to the pair of lights that had just appeared through the dark black of the night. The lights that were slowly but surely getting closer towards him. Headlights. Headlights that were headed their way, and whether they were friend or foe, at least they were not zombies and that was what made him nervous right then.

He readied his rifle, suddenly alert. Survivors in the city was a good thing, but in a hostile environment the experience could have effected them for the worst and turned them hostile. It always helped to be careful when dealing with civilian survivors, especially in circumstances like this. And if they were bringing wounded, that was even more dangerous, because wounded meant infected and infected would lead to zombies, and that line would have to be severed before it reached the final stage, and the problem would be that they would have to do it because their friends would not and that would get messy.

The Humvee drove right up against the curb and idled a bit before it shut the engine and killed the lights. It was another moment before the front doors on both sides opened and two men stepped out, dressed in battle garb and clutching their rifles. Then the back opened and three other soldiers hopped out, identical to the previous two. They began pulling out duffel bags, working in unison together in unloading their supplies. These were no ordinary civilians.

They did not know Foley was up there, and he kept quiet until he was certain of the numbers and until they had finished and had closed the doors to their vehicle, and only when they had taken their steps towards the building did he shout, "You have fifteen seconds to drop your weapons and put your hands in the air before I pull the trigger and put a hole in your head!"

They all stopped dead at his voice. He heard them muttering loudly among themselves, and he knew they were wondering if he was serious or if he was bluffing. This was confirmed when one of them shouted, "How do we know you're really armed?"

"If you don't do what I say in the next ten seconds, you're going to find out the hard way!" he shouted back, and he pulled back the loading bolt loud enough to let them know he was being serious.

Then another voice called out, and this one was a lighter voice; a familiar voice.

"At ease, soldier. We're on your side."

Bradley stepped out, his M-16 at the ready. Behind him, Connors and Jones had taken up positions where their weapons could cover him if needed. He kept his own weapon trained and ready on the five green-coated uniformed troopers, armed with M-4s and looking nervous. One of them, the one who had spoken last, stepped forward. He was tall, he was blond-haired, he was friendly looking enough, and he was very, very familiar.

"I know you," the sergeant stated. "You were at the LZ."

"Captain Roberts." The U.B.C.S captain stepped forward to shake his hand. "Glad to finally find friendly forces."

The two D-boys in the shop eased up and smiled at the Umbrella soldiers. At long last, friendly reinforcements, and friendly reinforcements with transportation, no less. Their good feeling just got better. They had an easier way out of this mess.

The Umbrella soldiers grabbed their bags and slung them over their shoulders, looking at the small store as a sanctuary off the road. As they walked through the doors, one of them turned back and called out, "LaSalle! Hurry up!"

A sixth soldier emerged from behind the vehicle, the youngest from the looks of him. He was balancing his heavy bag, which was not zipped up properly, and his rifle, and the weight of both were almost forcing him off his feet. Bradley stepped forward to catch him as he almost tripped over his own feet.

"You alright there, buddy?" he asked.

The young soldier looked at him and gave a meek smile. New guy; definitely a new guy.

"_LaSalle_," the other soldier, a broad, mean-looking man with a face to rival a bulldog's, growled at him. "_Let's go_."

Bradley helped to stand him up. LaSalle stared at him for another moment, then on the urging of his comrade he followed his team into the store.

"Don't worry about him," said Captain Roberts. "He's just a bit high-strung. We all are. It's understandable, given the circumstances."

"Yeah," Bradley agreed, brushing it off. The kid was young; that he had lasted this long in these surroundings was amazing in itself.

Going back inside, they found that the Umbrella soldiers had stuffed their gear in the back against the wall near the door. Two of them had gone over to the coffee machine to pour themselves a cup, their tired, worn-out faces looking relieved at the idea of coffee, their first in days, maybe weeks. The other three started shifting through the shelves looking for food or any other rations they could get their hands on. Christ only knew when their last meal was; anything looked good right then.

Introductions were quickly made. There were the captain himself; there was LaSalle, the baby of the group at twenty-one, a short thin soldier with a youthful face; Perez, the mean-looking man from before, a man of Mexican decent that was constantly chewing gum; Flynn, a pale soldier with small round glasses; Boyd, an Irishman with fiery red hair; and Swift, a big, silent Native American man with a very large Russian machine-gun to accommodate him.

The two commanders sat at the grill fire, Bradley on one side, Roberts on the other. One of the Umbrella men handed his leader a cup of coffee, which he gratefully accepted.

The captain was younger than he probably should have been, for his rank, anyway, and definitely did not look battle-hardened, but he was no rookie, either. He had some experience, just not as much as Bradley would have assumed. Regardless, he looked trained enough, and obviously he had some good leadership qualities if he and his men were able to survive this long.

"Is this all of you?" he asked.

"No, there's more," Roberts took a sip from his coffee. "But we were cut off from them yesterday. We were the advance party, and we were separated by a pack of Hunters attacking our numbers-"

"Hunters?"

"The large lizard creatures, you may have seen them?"

"We've been underground for most of our time here. Most we've seen are zombies."

"They're a fierce bunch. You really have to just keep shooting them until they stay down. Zombies are a bit easier, but get past that, you have to get a bit creative."

"How much past zombies are there in the city?" Jones wanted to know.

"Not very much. Standard B.O.W.'s and a few higher-leveled subjects, but most if not all of them are ones we can handle. You just need to know what you're up against, that's the key, really."

So it was always the case in the battlefield, but never had that been more true in this city, where around any corner could be a new creature waiting to behead them. At least regular enemies had predictable weaponry, but even with all the information they had acquired from the underground lab, they had the feeling that there was more than what they had read lurking in the dark corners of Raccoon City.

Food was being passed around now, and the grateful Umbrella soldiers accepted them greedily. Roberts opened a Twinkie and ate it slowly, calmly, savoring the taste of the cream-filled pastry. He was the only one; the other soldiers were digging into their food with an animalistic ferocity, ripping them out of their packaging and shoving them into their mouths with snarling noises.

"My men have gone two days without eating, forgive their barbaric nature," Roberts explained, throwing a glare at one of his men, who merely shrugged.

"It's fine." Bradley had to stifle a laugh. Here they were in the middle of a zombie outbreak and the captain was more concerned with his soldiers' manners than he was with their current predicament.

"So, underground, you say?" Roberts tore open a bag of chips and began calmly eating from them. "Anywhere in particular?"

"Underneath the police station. Through the sewers, inside an underground laboratory, and then we went right back up the way we had come-"

At the word "laboratory", there was a sudden pause in activity. All of the Umbrella soldiers, except for the youngest one LaSalle, stopped eating and looked up at the sergeant with grave expressions. Two of them exchanged looks with each other. LaSalle looked around at his comrades with an alarmed expression at the sudden shift in tone. One of the men pulled him over and began whispering into his ear.

"Really now?" Roberts said, his voice even but his face terse. "Did you find anything of value, per chance?"

"Nothing really. Most of it was already cleaned out when we arrived."

Bradley kept his poker face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jones slowly and carefully pull the files they had out towards him. Good move. As glad as he was for company, he did not need to cause tension in telling them about the files they had found. Especially not with what they were planning on doing with them. They needed these guys to finish doing their job, and telling them that they would soon be out of a job after this mission was not the way to help them.

The captain seemed to accept this, and the rest of his men resumed their activities. Bradley and Connors exchanged knowing glances. They could be friendly with them, but they also had to keep their secrets to themselves.

"So," Roberts pressed on. "What are your plans? Where are you off to?"

"We're just trying to find a way out of the city, get back to command. You?"

"Same. You're welcome to tag along, of course. The more, the merrier, in this situation."

"Sounds good." Hey, if he was offering. Besides, traveling around in a vehicle was always better than walking.

They might actually be alright now. They might actually have a guarantee out. Maybe.

* * *

"Captain, you sure about taking them? Given our orders?" Perez asked, glaring at the Delta soldiers.

"Couldn't hurt them," Roberts muttered, keeping his voice low. "Besides, they might know things. Who knows? Maybe killing them isn't the right thing to do for this situation."

"You think they know?" Boyd wanted to know.

"If they really were in the lab under the city? There's no way they don't," hissed Flynn.

"They know," the captain answered. "Of course they know. The question is, how _much_ do they know?"

LaSalle looked concernedly from one man to the other. Swift said nothing, but tightened his grip on his PK light machine-gun. If there was a problem, his machine-gun would probably finish it in under seven seconds. If not, there were six of them and only four Delta. Numbers made a battle.

Most of the time, anyway...

* * *

It had been an accident that it had happened. An accident that had inadvertently saved their lives.

Jones had gone to the back room to get some drinks out of the freezer. They were out of cold Pepsi out front, and surely there was some in the back.

As he did, his leg accidentally hit the strap to one of the bags the Umbrella soldiers that was stacked against the wall. It got caught in the groove of his boot, he pulled, and the whole bag fell over, the top of it already open so that it's contents spilled all over the ground.

_Shit_, he thought as he bent down to pick them up as quickly as he could before one of those boys came by here and made the assumption that he was snooping through their stuff. That was one of the best ways to kill diplomatic relations, going through the other side's papers, and with rescue now at hand the last thing he felt like doing was spoiling their chances of going home. He grabbed a couple of papers and were about to put them away when the image on them caught his eye.

They were pictures; pictures of a crashed MH-6 Little Bird sitting in a little grove outside of some alleyway, the windshield smashed, the rotors sheered off upon impact, the nose practically buried into the ground. He frowned. There were no bodies in the cockpit, but...was that theirs? Was that their bird that had crashed at the beginning, crashed what felt like years ago but in reality had barely been three days ago?

Why did Umbrella have pictures of that?

He shook his head, trying to bring clear his reasoning. Maybe they saw it and thought it was important to document. Yeah, that made sense. In this kind of combat zone, scenes like this were common for photography, as visual references. That made sense, of course. No need to chastise them for it-

And that was when he saw the helmet.

He happened to glance out of the corner of his eye and see it, and when he looked to get a full view of it he immediately wished he had not. The helmet was black and looked more like a skateboarder's helmet than a soldier's helmet, and when he saw it his mind immediately said _that's one of ours_. Whose, exactly, he was not able to tell at first as he picked it up and examined it; the tape on the back that usually had their names written on had been burned off. Indeed, this helmet looked as though it had just been through a massive explosion or a heavy fire, and it was scorched badly in some places. He peered closer and discovered something else, something worse.

Writing. There was writing on it, in yellow highlighter. Not just any writing, either. Names.

_Oh no..._

* * *

"Sarge, a word."

Bradley put his head to his walkie link and turned to the back door, where Jones was waving him back there as subtly as he could without alerting the others, who were gathering around the grill and laughing over some funny story. He politely excused himself and went over to his teammate, who closed the door behind him.

"We got a problem," he blurted out as soon as it was closed.

Bradley frowned. "Zombies?"

"No, worse. These Umbrella guys. I don't think they're here to help us."

"…Sorry?"

"Look, I was putting some stuff away, and I accidentally knocked over a couple of these guys' bags, and one had pictures of Delta Five's Little Bird after the crash, and the other bag…well, the other bag had this." And with that, he held up the helmet with the writing on it.

John Bradley recognized that helmet the moment he saw it, and the moment he did he felt his heart drop into the deepest bowels of his chest. He took the helmet and gingerly touched the scorched surface. Most of the names had been blurred out by the explosions, but some of them were still readable, and all of them had been written in a yellow highlight marker. No doubt about who had owned it.

"Did you find anything belonging to the other members?" he asked, looking back up at Jones. "Bielski?"

"No, but…well, I mean, that's all we need, right? Regardless of whether or not they got anyone else, they've got Shipley's helmet and no Shipley. And I don't know why they'd want it as a souvenir unless it was as a kill."

"Mickey, Foley, get back here," Bradley got on his comm link and ordered. "Keep it casual."

He exchanged looks with his panicked subordinate, but kept his own emotions in check. Not was not a time to lose control, especially with the situation as tense as it was.

The two men came back, laughing casually.

"These guys are alright," said Foley.

"Yeah," added Connors. "That big guy, Swift or whatever, he's actually kinda funny. That story about his op in Guatemala, man, that was a riot."

"Yeah, no kidding. So what's up, Sarge?"

Bradley just raised the helmet up for both of them to see.

"This was in one of their bags."

He watched as their expressions fell, the smiles slide away as their mouths just hung open in surprise. Foley turned from one to the other, back and forth, as if looking to them for confirmation instead of looking at the evidence itself. Connors reached and took the helmet, holding it and turning it around in his own hand. The other hand touched a few of the faded names.

"This is Ship's helmet," he said softly.

"Yeah," Jones nodded. "It came right out of one of their bags."

"What was he doing with Shipley's helmet in his bag?" Foley asked, still looking from Jones to Bradley and back. "Where did he get it?"

"I don't know. They had pictures of the crash site, they might have picked it up from there."

"No one just picks up a helmet from the field," Connors spat, still examining his comrade's helmet. "It's not like picking up a gun or a ring or something, you can get those anytime. You only take a helmet after you've made the kill."

"I know, I _know_."

Bradley looked past them at the Umbrella soldiers, none of which seemed to suspect anything...yet. Or maybe they knew and were maintaining poker faces. It was hard to tell. The way they had acted when he had announced their being in the labs was making him think they were already in the red zone.

"What do we do about it, Sarge?" Foley asked.

"Well, we can't stay with them, that much is certain. They already know we were snooping around in their labs."

"But do we let them go?"

"Fuck no!" Connors hissed. "They killed our guys! We came in here as allied forces doing one job, and now that all hell's breaking loose, they're gonna start killing our boys?"

"He's right, we can't risk that," Jones agreed. "What's to say they don't move on and kill the next group they find? Ours or a group of civilians?"

"It's too risky," Bradley agreed. "We're just going to have to deal with them."

"Kill them as soon as we go in?"

"No, play it cool. Go back in there, have a normal conversation. But we'll get into attack position, and when the time is right, we'll get it out of them."

"And if they don't tell us?" Connors wanted to know, eying the sergeant.

"However way this goes, their captain stays alive," was Bradley's only response to that. "He's the one we get the information out of. I don't care what happens with the others." He turned back to them. "Now let's figure out a plan."

* * *

Roberts should have realized something was wrong when all of the Delta team had gone back to talk, but thought nothing of it. Instead his mind was transfixed on what they were going to do when they brought them back to the rest of the convoy. They would keep the sergeant alive, to get the information out of him, and then probably kill the rest of them. Or maybe keep them all, and question them individually.

Question is, what would Isaacs do with them? Kill them, or use them for experiments? What went on with science was no concern of his, he was just hired help, but he often wondered what happened to the people they took in for questioning. Probably did not matter. It was something to think about, though.

He did not think anything was wrong when the Delta soldiers came back into the room and resumed talking with them; at least, not at first. Something felt off, though. The sergeant seemed off to the side, near the door, in case he needed to make a quick escape...but the rest of his men were right in the open. He shook the thoughts from his head. No one suspected a thing, he knew that. Everything was a-OK in this place.

That feeling came back when the conversation took a very sudden turn.

"So," the Delta machine-gunner, Connors or whatever, stuck a marshmallow on his combat knife and roasted it over the grill. "Has it just been you guys this whole time? You haven't found anyone else?"

He was speaking across the grill to Swift with a smirk on his face. The big Indian kept a straight face; he knew what he was supposed to say. And it would be the truth, wouldn't it? Technically, these were the first Delta soldiers they had found...alive, anyway.

"Yes, it has," said Swift. "We haven't seen anyone but our troops since the LZ got overrun."

He seemed to accept that...but then Roberts got that feeling again. The other two Delta soldiers were shifting away...but why?

"Well, see...one of my buddies had a bit of an accident in the back and tripped over one of your bags. And, on accident, you understand...he found some pictures of a chopper that had crashed, it was all messed up, rotors gone, all that."

"Yes...and?"

Connors clicked his tongue, still smirking. "Thing is, it looked like one of our birds. And as fate would have it, one of our birds went down the other night due to rocket fire."

Flynn straightened his glasses up onto his nose. Perez tightened his grip on his M-4. Swift, being the silent man that he was, kept it cool.

"Yes, we came across it on our travels," he answered. "It was empty; I'm assuming one of your teams had already arrived to pull the bodies from the wreckage. We took pictures of the crash to keep for our records of this incident. You understand."

Seemed like an easy enough answer, thought Roberts. So why had that feeling of impending doom not gone away yet?

"Uh huh..." Connors popped the marshmallow in his mouth and stirred the coals with the tip of his knife. "And uh...did you take a helmet to keep on record as well?"

That was why. And with a sinking feeling, Roberts knew whose bag from they had found the helmet: LaSalle. The helmet that the rookie had taken from the battle as a souvenir. He glanced over, and sure enough, LaSalle's face had turned pale white, realizing what his eagerness had landed them into.

"Yeah, we found the helmet with the pictures, and we know it's ours. 'Prove it', you may say. 'Gladly', I reply. It's a small, black helmet, used for tactical missions more so than actual warfare. Our men wear them because on the kinds of missions we do, we're more concerned with hitting our heads on a door frame than we are taking a bullet to the noggin. It looks more like the helmet you'd see on a biker or a skateboarder. I'm reciting this all from memory, though if you look on our sergeant's head, you can get a good description yourself."

"Very interesting, but we found it laying by the wreckage and simply thought-"

"But you know how I _know_," The Delta gunner was ignoring everything he was saying now, and that was not a good sign, "that it's one of ours? The names. All over that helmet are these names written in yellow highlighter. And you wanna know how I know that makes it ours?"

"How?" Swift asked, but the rest of the men started getting restless. Out of the corners of his eye, he saw Perez grip his M-4 and start to stand. Flynn shifted over to the right. Boyd stood with his back to the shelves, his M-4 resting but ready to be brought up if needed. LaSalle did not move; he stood in front of one of the drink coolers, still frozen in shock.

"Because," Connors said, and now a shift of tone in his voice could be noted, "one of my friends' wife is pregnant. She's going into labor soon, might even be in it right now. We got called away on this op and he didn't even have time to see his wife deliver his first child. And they had not named him or her yet, so he was writing down names on his helmet to recommend to his wife when he got home.

"Now, no one just 'takes' a helmet from the battlefield. Most soldiers that need a helmet already have one. It's usually as a trophy, but mostly it's a trophy one gets from a kill. Now, I can't understand why one of your men would be carrying around one of our helmets unless it was just that- a trophy from a kill."

There was an overwhelming hush that fell over that little convenience store when Connors finished his speech. And it was at that moment that Roberts realized that both sides had, either subconsciously or knowingly, moved to be in an attacking position; either by cover or in a shooting position. And he knew then that diplomatic relations had just broken down.

Connors leaned forward, that smirk still on his face, but it was not friendly anymore.

"You're not here to help us, are you?"

Swift smiled, also dropping the pretense of alliance.

"No."

The Delta gunner nodded. "Are you here to kill us?"

"Yes."

And there it was. The hammer dropped. There was no point in pretending anymore, the captain thought, as he reached for the .44 magnum that rested in its holster by his side. There were six of them and four of Delta; numbers stated the winner, but did not dictate them.

Connors's smile widened to show his teeth.

"Well, then," he said. "That makes things pretty simple-"

In that one second, everything went to hell. In that one second, Roberts lost all control. In the one second- or was it a second? It felt like one- that Connors pulled out his Desert Eagle and aimed it at Swift's chest and pulled the trigger and sent that fifty caliber bullet through the Indian's chest so that it left a rather large hole coming out, Captain Roberts knew that they had lost the battle. His men never stood a chance.

Swift's eyes went wide and his mouth let out a bloodcurdling scream as he fell backwards due to the sheer force of that heavy bullet that had passed through him and had reduced much of his inner organs to mush. As he fell, both sides sprung into action; Bradley ducked behind the door as Boyd, Flynn, and Perez bolted behind the shelves, firing their weapons blindly and not hitting a soul as they fell behind cover.

LaSalle had not moved a muscle, too shocked by what was unfolding before him, and Foley took advantage of that as he pulled out his M-9 and aimed. Three quick pulls of the trigger meant three 9mm bullets that slammed into the young Umbrella soldier's chest. He hit the cooler with a thud, his eyes wide, his mouth open but unable to make any noise. He slid wordlessly to the floor and died sitting against the glass doors, bloodstained from the trail of his wounds sliding down.

Bradley peered out from behind the door he was on. From his position, he had a good bead on one of the Umbrella men, the one with the glasses. No one had started shooting near his position, so he pulled out his silenced pistol and aimed it at his target. Real quick, now...

Flynn had emptied his entire rifle during the hurry, and now was in the process of reloading. Just as he finished, however, there came a sudden soft pew noise and then the side of his neck let out a geyser of blood. His rifle fell to his side as his hands sprung to his neck, his eyes wide, a gurgling sound producing from his lips as his legs jerked and spasmed.

"_Flynn's down_!" Boyd cried, and then he made a big mistake, and ironically, the last mistake of his life. His mistake was standing up and making a move to go over to help his friend. That mistake was quickly picked up on by Connors, who without a second's hesitation aimed his heavy magnum at the target.

There was a heavy _thud_ and a large sickening _splash_ sound and Boyd's head was gone in a flash of red. He fell to his knees, then onto his chest, everything above the jaw line gone, leaving just a gaping crater where his head used to be.

Roberts lay on the ground, looking over at Perez, who just stared at him with a scared expression. Four of their men had gone down in under a minute, which was insane. Flynn was still twitching and choking on blood; the rest of the men were all completely still. None of the Delta soldiers were even wounded. Roberts could not believe the rut they were in. He had known that Delta was good, but no soldiers were _that_ good.

He looked up at the corner mirror that store users put up to keep an eye on potential shoplifters. The Delta men were moving forward in an arching position towards them, all except the black soldier, Jones, with their sidearms drawn; Jones had his MP-5. Their sniper, Foley, was walking alongside the cash counter, his M-9 still trained on LaSalle's corpse.

Roberts looked at Perez and nodded. His associate nodded, fear gripping him but resolve strengthened. He closed his eyes. One...two..._three_-

Both men stood up. Perez fired off a wild shot that hit the wall past Jones. Roberts, on the other hand, was a tad bit luckier. Aiming properly, he fired a .44 round that hit Foley right in the left shoulder. The Delta sniper spun and toppled over the counter and out of sight.

The captain's joy was immediately cut short when his right shoulder and arm exploded with pain as two bullets from Bradley's pistol slammed into the bone. As he fell, he heard Jones' sub-machine gun open up and saw Perez jerking wildly as the bullets hit him in the chest, one after the other. He flew into one of the glass freezer doors, the force of his body breaking the glass. He fell inside and lay still, his boots hanging out, unmoving.

* * *

Bradley moved up to his men, looking around. All six Umbrella soldiers, down for the count. The one he had shot had stopped twitching and was still, although there was still a low gurgling sound emitting from his throat. The only one still alive was the captain, as he had intended it, although the man was not without his own injuries.

But neither were they...

"Foley! You okay?" he called over.

There was a low groan, then Foley stood up, his arm hanging limp by his side, his face looking like one in pain, but there was no sign of any blood on the uniform.

"God _damn_, that hurt like a son of a bitch," he groaned. "Good thing I put that Kevlar plating in under my vest."

"You actually wore that thing?" Connors asked, raising an eyebrow. Rarely did any of them men use the added protection of the plating, as it was too heavy and cumbersome for them to move and shoot efficiently.

"Well shit, I needed it, didn't I? Shoulder's sore as hell, but at least there ain't no bullet in it."

_Which is a welcome relief_, Bradley thought. Foley was gonna be black and blue in the morning, but at least he could still use his arm, and in their situation, that was the best news he could ask for. His sniper being out of commission would make things a hell of a lot harder.

He turned his attention back to Roberts, who had been forced onto his back by Connors. The machine-gunner was aiming his Eagle right at his head. He moved over and glared down at the captain, who stared back with a cold, pained gaze.

"Tie him up," he said to his men. "Make him as least comfortable as possible."

He bent down so that the two were face to face. The hatred in the captain's face was very much evident, but there was fear there, fear at what they would do to him. And that was what made Bradley smile harder than he had in days.

"Now," he said silently to his new prisoner, "tell me again what you guys were doing in this city."

* * *

**Nothing more to say, really. Hope you enjoyed. Review if you wanna.**


	24. Kimball

**Make sure to read the notes at the bottom of the chapter, as they are important.**

**Otherwise, enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four: Kimball

* * *

It was something he should have seen coming, in hindsight. After his encounter with the old man in the room and learning about Umbrella's mercenaries, he should have realized that he would run into them within an hour of leaving the building. But his main concern was on getting out, on finding that escape route, and so he was unprepared for the ambush that awaited.

He lead the way, Nelson right behind him, Jackson taking up the rear, and Daisy running in between then, occasionally tripping them up. His men were fully alert, which was good for him, because he was still lost in the thoughts of what that old man had been saying.

There were a lot of things about this city that was concerning to him; first the labs under the city, and now there was the old Spencer mansion being connected with that. The lab was probably the most concerning, that underneath his hometown was a set of labs responsible for this large a viral outbreak. And then the mansion, that old place they used to joke about as kids, turns out to be connected to it. Was the whole area nothing more than just one big Umbrella facility disguised as a town?

He knew, of course, how much of this town's uprising came from Umbrella's funding. Everyone knew. They were behind Mayor Warren's election, they were behind that new hospital that got built, their funding got STARS in place...pretty much their entire existence came from that one company. Their history of the town was not a secret, it was common knowledge.

They owed Umbrella a lot. Did that mean they had to be the fodder point for their dirty laundry?

_No_, he thought._ No it did not. Nothing deserved this_.

They reached the main street at last. Cars littered the street, making it impossible to travel by car, and just as difficult to travel by foot, though not impossible. Tom glanced out, looking right, then left. To the right a small group of about three or four zombies wandering aimlessly. To the left was clear. He motioned for his men to move left and to keep it tight.

He didn't see the Umbrella Humvee or the soldier in the gunner's turret until he saw the fifty cal swing his way out of the corner of his eye.

"_Hit the ground now_!"

All three of them ducked behind a blown-up car as the turret opened fire. He felt the car shudder as the heavy fifty caliber bullets clipped the hood of the car and prayed that the gunner did not aim lower; rounds from a fifty cal were heavy enough to punch right through cars. Daisy barked and barked, but stayed with them, and he thanked heaven for that.

When the firing stop, they stuck their heads up to see.

"You think that's them?" Nelson asked.

"It's gotta be," Jackson retorted. "Unless one of our guys is shooting at us."

"I see green," said Tom, peering through his rifle's reflex sight. "That's them."

The words barely left his mouth when the gun opened fire again. Again they ducked behind the car and rode out the shock waves that the bullets impacting the hood sent through to them. The gunner had not gone through the entire belt the first time; he had only fired a short burst, saving his ammo, playing it smart.

When it stopped a second time, Jackson stuck his head up.

"_Hey_!" he shouted before Tom had a chance to stop him. "_Hey, you scrawny-ass shit! What the fuck is wrong with you? We're on your side, ya dumb sack of dumb_!"

He ducked back down as the gun opened fire a third time, a shorter burst than the previous two.

"Yeah, they don't care," he muttered.

"Alright," Tom said, getting to business. "We'll wait 'til he reloads. I'll cover your advance. Get in close enough to use grenades."

"And if there's more of them?" Nelson asked, as he and Jackson prepared to move.

"One step at a time."

"Great," Jackson growled. The sergeant let it go. Now was not the time.

The gun fired again, and this time when it ended there was the clear sound of a heavy machine-gun reloading. Tom took the chance to pop up and fire up three quick shots in suppression.

"Go!" he shouted.

His two teammates took off, one from the front of the car, one from the rear, cutting a straight line down the road to the Humvee. Tom fired off several more shots to cover them, grazing one of them in the shoulder.

Jackson reached a Ford and placed his SAW on the hood, firing a quick burst at the gunners. They ducked behind the gun, out of sight. He looked over at Nelson and nodded. The medic nodded back and barrel-rolled over the Subaru he had been behind, landing on his knee and aiming his MP-5 at the Humvee, holding his fire when he saw that the men had taken cover.

"Toss me a grenade!" he shouted.

Jackson pulled a frag off his vest and threw it to him. Nelson, letting his sub-machine gun fall on its strap to his lap, caught it, pulled the pin, and chucked it over the vehicles.

It landed in the hatch of the Humvee.

Nelson ducked down as the grenade detonated. The Humvee exploded, the windshield glass being shattered, the doors getting blown off their hinges. One of the Umbrella mercenaries crawled out, covered in blood, his back torn apart by the blast. He screamed for a medic. He was answered with a bullet to the head.

The three Delta survivors stood and approached the burning wreck cautiously, weapons raised. There were no signs of any living.

"Well, that was simple enough," Jackson pointed out.

"Too simple," said Nelson. "There's got to be more around here."

"Keep moving. Keep your eyes peeled." There was no point in staying. Tom felt as if eyes were staring at them from every building. They needed to move.

Nelson took the lead, quick on his feet, sub-machine gun at the ready. Tom and Jackson followed, the machine-gunner in the rear, keeping an eye over his shoulder for any surprise attacks. Daisy ran alongside them, no longer tripping them up, staying on her own path. It was as if the dog understood what was going on around them, somehow, and was being as little a burden as she could be.

Sniper fire erupted from the windows. Not a barrage, just one or two shots at a time. Jackson took pot shots at the windows with his SAW, but he scored no kills. They were too well concealed; these were professional snipers, not random mercenaries. Where was Umbrella finding these guys?

Tom shot a soldier in front of them in the head, then fired three more at two soldiers to the right, only hitting one. They could not stay here, lest they risk getting surrounded and killed. They had to get off this street before the Umbrella forces started bringing in heavier equipment.

"There! Through the garage!" he ordered, pointing to the parking garage entrance to their left.

Nelson ran ahead, pausing only to fire a burst into a mercenary's chest. He rolled under the grate and lifted it high enough so that the other two could duck under it. Jackson covered them as the sergeant and his dog ducked under, then joined them. Together he and Nelson lowered the gate and locked it while Horan fired through the bars.

They took cover and reloaded. Tom looked around for an alternate route. The only other way was down, further into the parking garage. If they had to do it, then they would, but who knew what was down there, in this town?

"Hello in there!"

They froze. Outside the shooting had stopped, and now a low, deep voice was shouting in. Tom glanced out from behind his cover to see. It was a man dressed in a black tactical outfit, not like those dressed in green. Special Forces, maybe. It was hard to tell from here.

"Sergeant Horan, right?"

He hesitated. That was twice now in the last hour that someone knew his name without him giving it. And somehow he doubted this man had special powers as well.

"Who's asking?" he shouted.

"My name is Avery Kimball. I'm in command of the Umbrella forces in this area."

"That's swell." Beside him, he saw Jackson setting up his SAW for a more stationary position. "Why don't you tell your boys to stop shooting at us then, huh?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that. We have our orders."

"Yeah?" On his other side, Nelson was preparing to throw a frag grenade. "What orders might that be?"

"We have orders to wipe out U.S. Forces from this city and contain the infection."

"That's what _we're_ doing. We're here to help secure the city and protect the civilians. That's the _only_ reason we're here."

He heard the man laugh.

"Yeah? And what have you learned in the last few days? How much do you know about the cause of the outbreak?"

He exchanged glances with his men. They had to lie if they had any chances of making it out of here.

"Something about an accident in a lab. That's it-"

"You're lying." There was another laugh. "You know exactly what caused it. You know exactly what the reason is. Three days in, all this going on, Umbrella rooted so deeply in this town, how could you not know by now? No Delta can't go three days without uncovering something important.

"Now me, I really don't care what you know. Umbrella's politics are no concern of mine. But they're the ones signing the checks, you know?"

"Former military," Jackson whispered. "Special Forces. Maybe Delta."

"What's former Delta doing working for Umbrella?" Nelson hissed.

"You're good." Tom shouted over. "You military?"

"Years ago. Umbrella gave me a better option, so I took it."

"I'll keep that in mind if I ever need a retirement plan."

There was another laugh. At least the guy had a good sense of humor, even if he intended to kill all of them. But he had not attacked yet, and that was good. Maybe they could keep stalling long enough to figure something out.

But then Kimball spoke again. "Listen, I'm on a time schedule here. Only got a few more hours before we've got to evacuate, so why don't you just make this easy on us? Come on out now and we'll make it easier on you."

"I'll pass, thanks. We could work together, you know. Help each other out of here. It doesn't have to be like this."

There was a chuckle, but it was not like the ones before. This one was colder, more sinister. When he spoke again, his voice matched that same tone.

"I'd rather chew through a box of rusty nails than work with Delta again," he growled. "Now get your ass out here already."

Tom weighed their options. Fight or keep going into the garage. They had the cover and a better line of sight than the enemy did, but they were outside and his men were in this tunnel. All this Kimball guy had to do was lob in a grenade or fire in a rocket and they'd all be leaving this city in bags. And who knew how many men were waiting out there? Could be the whole city for all he knew.

Still he made no move to go near the gates. Neither did his men.

He heard Kimball sigh.

"Alright," he said. "Have it your way."

There was a brief pause. Then there was a high-pitched scream. One of the Umbrella soldiers had dragged a woman in front of the gate and put her down on her knees. Kimball removed a handgun from his holster and leveled it at the woman's head.

"Oh hell," Jackson said. "They wouldn't."

"No, no, no," Nelson shook his head.

"Why don't you tell the nice men about yourself, honey?" Kimball said, a taunting tone in his voice. Tom gripped his rifle tightly. This was not good.

"My...my name is Abigail Mason," the woman called out in between sobs. "I'm...a nurse...at Raccoon City Hospital."

"And tell them about your family?"

"I have...two children...I don't know where they are..."

Tom looked through his scope. The woman was short, light-brown hair cut just above her shoulders, her face plump but pretty. She was sporting a black eye and a cut lip, and he wondered if these men, these animals, had been roughing her up. Where did they get her from? Did they just pick her off the street and started beating her up, holding on to her in case they needed a bargaining chip?

He then brought his scope up to see Kimball's face. It was the face of a man who had seen some combat, was going gray in the hair, and yet was still young and spry. He did not look familiar at all; how long had he been off their forces?

"She has a chance to find them," Kimball said back through the gate. "It would be a shame if those kids never found their mother alive again."

"So this is Umbrella's method of bartering?" Tom shouted back. "Holding civilians at gunpoint? I thought you people were supposed to be protecting this town! See what you've done to it?"

There was another laugh, not from Kimball but from one of his men. So Umbrella had a good sense of humor, apparently, but not enough to acknowledge murder of civilians.

"I'm going to count to ten," Kimball called in. "And if you're not out here by ten, then she's not getting up off her knees. One."

"Please," Abigail shouted through her tears, grabbing the rails with her hand. "Please! I just want to go home!"

"Two."

"They're gonna do it," Jackson said. "He'll kill her. He doesn't give a _fuck_."

"Three."

"What do we do?" asked Nelson frantically.

"I don't know, I can't get a clean shot off," Tom said as "Four" was called in. The metal gate worked both ways; it blocked the mercenaries' view inside and protected them from a hail of gunfire, but it also blocked their own bullets from hitting any targets properly.

"Five."

"_Listen_!" Tom shouted over. "Listen! We don't have to do this! We don't have a quarrel with you, we're just trying to get out of the city!"

The count had stopped, Kimball had grown quiet. The ball was back in their court for now.

"Umbrella's affairs don't mean anything to us," he continued. "Delta would be willing to give you a free pass if you agreed to call this off and help us find a way out. You kill her, that's off the table, and you know that. Government's going to be on your ass to the ends of the earth."

There was still no reply. The woman was still heard sobbing on the other side of the gate, but there was no other noise from Kimball or the other mercenaries. Was he finally getting through?

"Look, I don't know what your own quarrel with us is," he continued. "If you have a personal stake, we have no part in it. Just let her go, we'll let you in on our terms, we can talk this out-"

_BAM_!

Even as just silhouettes he could see it. He could see the muzzle flash and the splash of blood and brain as the man's bullet pierced through her skull. He saw her body fall against the bars and then slide, could imagine the look of shock on her face as her life was taken so suddenly. One hand slumped to her side, the other clung to the rails, her hand still clutching it tightly, her head was pressed against the bars looking right in at them.

Tom sat there, stunned. _God damn it_...even though inside he knew this would be the likely outcome, the naivety in him believed he could have talked them into not killing her.

Kimball's voice rang through the bars again, and once again it was low and deadly.

"Let me spell it out for you," he said. "_I don't take freebies_."

Tom watched his figure slide out of view and he fell back onto his rear. Instinct was telling him he had to move, but his legs would not cooperate. Jackson and Nelson were still staring ahead at the corpse; shock had paralyzed all of them, shock and the feeling of failure.

They had been sent into this city to protect the civilians, but they had just let one die in order to keep themselves safe. Was that right? The situation had undoubtedly changed from three days ago, but that objective had not, at least, not to him. Was it possible to have saved her, though? Given themselves up to keep her alive? At least it was possible they could have planned something once...

No. He could not think like that. They had a job to do, and that meant getting out of the city on their own terms. But even still...

Bullets hitting their cover interrupted his train of thought. The other mercenaries were pointing their weapons through the bars and taking pot shots to lure them out. Jackson fired a quick burst off and ducked back down.

"We've got to move," he said.

"What about-" Nelson began, looking towards the woman.

"What are we going to do, open the gate, kill them, drag her body in and take it with us? There's nothing more we can do."

"We're supposed to be protecting civilians-"

"No." Tom finally said, shaking through his thoughts. "The objective has changed. It's every man for himself now."

His medic looked at him surprised. Up until that point, their objective in that regard had not changed. Now it had. They had to think about themselves now, as hard as that was for him.

Tom had to accept that at this point, the city had evacuated itself of as many civilians as they could. If not...well, God help them.

"Move down into the garage. Nelson, you first. Jackson, cover."

The medic nodded and ran as the machine-gun opened up. Daisy immediately bounded after him, running at full pace. Tom jumped up and fired three shots, then tapped Jackson on the shoulder. The two immediately turned and ran down into the dark.

* * *

The three men moved together, weapons ready, down one ramp and turning corners onto another. Two levels down now, and hopefully wherever this lead was big enough to easily hide out in. They reached the corner to head to level three and-

They stopped. Weapons clicked. Daisy started barking.

A small squad of Umbrella soldiers stood in front of them, six or seven total. They were dressed in black tactical gear, just like Kimball, but theirs seemed bulkier, heavier. Their weapons were Tavor TAR-21 assault rifles, short bullpup weapons. Their faces were dirty and bloodstained, and there was a mixture of fear and anger in their eyes.

"Drop your weapons," one of them said, in a Scottish accent. Or was it Irish? Tom could not tell.

"You drop yours," Jackson retorted, his SAW aimed right at the one who spoke.

"I said it first," the man replied. Definitely Irish. His tone was a lot lighter, not as thick. But then, Tom did not have much experience with either accent that did not come from someone doing an impersonation.

"T'would be a shame for you lot to have to die down here," the Irishman continued. "Seven versus three, would hardly be a fair fight, would it?"

"Seven TARs against one light-machine gun that still has about three quarters of a belt left in it," Jackson fired back with a snort. "Faster rate of fire, chances are I can pull the trigger faster than you too. You might get all three of us, but I'm betting I can take you along for the ride."

Everyone's fingers tightened around their grips. Daisy continued to bark and growl at the mercenaries. Just as the shooting would have probably commenced, a thick British accent- and he was sure this one was British- shouted "_Stand down_!"

Tom's rifle shifted to the man who stepped forward, the only one who was not pointing his weapon directly at them. He was a big man, well-built, dark-haired and eyed and with a broad face. His face was harsh, but his eyes seemed kind enough. He studied them for a moment, hand on his weapon but finger not near the trigger, although Tom supposed if he wanted to he could cut them all down in a moment's notice.

"Everyone can stand down," the man said. "We have no quarrel with Delta here."

"Yeah?" Tom retorted, not lowering his weapon. "Tell that to your men up above. The ones that just butchered a civilian to lure us out."

"Eh, shit," the Irish one said. "Sounds like the other lot's upstairs, Harry. Newman's reports were true."

"So they are," the man called Harry agreed, stroking his chin. "If that's right, it just made our lives more difficult."

Tom frowned. What the hell were they talking about? What other lot?

"Jesus Christ, will this dog shut up?" A thick Scottish accent- yes, this one had to be Scottish- shouted angrily, glaring at Daisy. "It's going to give us away."

"I'll shut the bitch up." The Irishman stepped forward, pointing his Tavor at her.

Without even lowering his CAR-15, Tom reached into his holster with his other hand, pulled out Cribbs' .45 pistol, and pointed it right at the man's head. Every other weapon save Harry's aimed right at him.

The Irishman stared down the big bore of the pistol. Tom glared at him.

"Go ahead," he said, voice low. "Pull the trigger. Shoot the dog. _Make my fucking day_."

He cocked the hammer to let him know he was very serious. The man believed him too.

"I said _stand down_," Harry ordered again. "No one's shooting anyone. My lot, lower your weapons now or I'll be giving you all trouble later."

He glared at his men as they did what he said, then turned to the Delta sergeant. "Whether you trust us or not, I don't care," he told him. "We've got no fight with you. We're staying down here to rally whatever men we have left to make a push out of the city. You're welcome to stay for a while, but I won't be forcing you. If you do stay, we have some food and ammunition we can spare, but not a lot. Your choice. I could give a shit."

He turned and nodded to his men, who all turned and walked back down the ramp with them. Tom turned towards his men, raising an eyebrow.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Jackson shrugged. "Might be a trap."

"If he wanted us dead, he has a better approach to it than that Kimball guy did," Nelson pointed out. "At least he's giving us the option."

"True." Tom checked his ammo pouches. "I could use a refill myself. And if he's offering..." He shrugged to them.

"Well," Jackson lowered his SAW and started walking, "I'll go in. I'm not necessarily gonna like it, but whatever."

"Hope they got some medical supplies," Nelson said, following. "I could use some of that."

Tom whistled to Daisy, who hurried over to him. He pet her on the head and followed his men into the dark.

* * *

The U.B.C.F forces lead the three Delta men and one dog into the bottom-most basement area. There were five additional soldiers down there; two were counting up supplies and ammunition, two were preparing food, and one was on a large radio, listening through the headset. The rest of the mercenaries went about their own business; Jackson immediately went over to the food, and Nelson, the supplies. Tom followed Harry as the bigger man approached the radio operator.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Reports from all over, Sarge," the operator replied. "Pockets of resistance from the Downtown area to the Cedar District, some wins, some losses. Newman's unit has gone dark. Still no report from Command."

"Bollocks," Harry muttered. "Alright, try to send a message through. Tell them Green Arrow has made contact with a surviving Delta unit. Have all of our surviving men converge on our location in the basement of the mall's parking center. We'll fight our way out together."

_We're at the mall?_ Tom wondered. How many hours did he spend there before he shipped off? He did not even want to know how many zombies were up there right now, lurking in all his favorite stores, decimating what had once been a cheerful place.

"Right away, Sergeant," the radio operator said, putting his headset back on and speaking into the mic.

Harry sat down by a barrel that had a fire going and motioned for Tom to do the same. The Delta sergeant obeyed, keeping his rifle across his lap for easy enough access. Just in case.

"So has it just been you lot since the barricades got overrun?" Harry asked, taking out his knife and an apple and cutting up a slice.

"So far," was the reply. "We've been trying to locate other survivors. Civilians mostly. We haven't had much luck."

Harry cut a slice and offered it to him. Tom took it gratefully. It probably was not good to let his guard down, but the man made no move to hurt him, so he would go along for now.

"My unit was in charge of getting civilians out while everything else was going on," the Umbrella soldier said. "We got out maybe a hundred or so. Everyone else, well..." he gestured towards the way they had come in, indicating the outside world.

One hundred had gotten out...Raccoon City had a population of around 100,000 people. Only a thousandth of the population had been evacuated before everything had gone to hell. And were any of them infected as well? Would the doctors at the rally points know how to treat it? Probably not.

One hundred...and then it hit him. He pulled his helmet off and pulled out the picture of Anna and held it out for the man to see.

"Did you see this girl there?" he asked. "Maybe she got off on one of the transports?"

Harry laughed. "Mate, I've seen so many living and dead faces over the last three days, I couldn't tell you who was who. You're asking me to pick out a needle from a stack of needles."

Seeing the Delta sergeant's dismayed face, however, he took a quick glance at the photo. "Not ringing any bells," he said, looking back up. "Sister?"

"Girlfriend," Tom replied, putting the picture away. "Well, ex."

The other man laughed again. "Shit, if my ex was in a city full of zombies, I'd leave her there. Did you not break up on bad terms?"

"Well, no, it sucked, but...I dunno. It was for legitimate reasons. I was in the forces, she was in college, distance, you know."

"Ahh. And you still care."

Tom raised an eyebrow to say, _what do you think_? Harry chuckled and took a swig of his canteen.

"You're young for Delta," he noted. "How old are you?"

"I turned twenty back in July."

"Bloody hell, very young. I thought most Delta were nearing their thirties, and here you are, a little baby. How'd you get in so young?"

"Luck." Tom gave him a wry smile. "I worked my ass off, I did best on my tests. My marksmanship was top of their game. I basically pushed myself to be the best. And they recognized that."

"Good on you. Get in young, kick ass for a lot longer."

That made him laugh. "What about you? What were you, former SAS?"

"A good SAS never tells whether he was or not," Harry said, tapping his nose and giving a cheeky grin. "Majority of Umbrella's paramilitary units are a mix of former military and prisoners on death row wanting a second chance. Most would probably sell out their own mothers for the promise of some good pay. Our unit's not all like that. We're Blackwater. Better trained, better equipped. Majority of us would rather die than betray each other. We're proper soldiers."

_It looked like it_, Tom thought, glancing around. All the soldiers seemed to enjoy each other enough; there was a level of camaraderie here on par with their own.

"And none of you want to kill us?" he asked, turning back.

"We haven't heard shit about having to deal with any of you," Harry replied, his mouth full of apple. He swallowed the piece before continuing. "Even if we had, I can't see how it would've helped any. Although we had one of our convoys get shot up a couple of days ago, pretty sure that was Delta."

"Wasn't us. Like I said, we've barely seen a living soul this whole time." So someone else _was_ still alive in this city. Or at least, they had been a couple of days ago.

"No, I believe you. But we took a couple of casualties, and they made a mess out of our rides. Once we heard the U.B.C.S were targeting all surviving Delta, I figured those lot mistook us for them."

"Well, you _are_ wearing the same uniform."

"Aye. Might have to have a word with my C.O. about that."

Tom smirked, as he accepted another apple slice that Harry offered him.

"I figured you'd be a little angrier about that. If it was me-"

"Oh, I'm pissed," Harry stared hard right at him. "Some good men were killed the other night because of a misunderstanding that shouldn't have bloody happened. I don't know what you did to piss them off, but I don't like losing men over someone else's war."

"I don't either. I mean, we were all working together the other night. As far as I knew, everything was fine between us."

Tom did not mention what he had learned from the old man. Despite the friendly atmosphere and the equal disgust at what the other Umbrella mercenaries were doing in the city, Harry was still Umbrella. Lord knew how loyal he was to his employers, or whether he could be trusted in knowing what they had put them into. He could not afford to fully drop his guard now, not when he had come so far.

Harry finished off the apple and threw the core away.

"Well, whatever," he said. "If no other survivors show up come first light, we're bugging out. We'll fight our way out to the main gate out of the city, and if any of those other lot give us grief, we'll take them out as well. You're welcome to come with us."

"I might take you up on that. Let me sleep on it."

"Fine by me."

One of his men called over for him then, and Harry went off, leaving the Delta soldier by the fire. Tom stood up, brushed himself off, and went to lay against one of the walls to get a bit of a nap.

How does that work, he wondered. One minute they were watching Umbrella kill a civilian to route them out, and the next the same company was offering them hospitality? It did not make a bit of sense to him, but finally he had a place to rest his head a while. He had been moving constantly since Cribbs died, not giving himself a moment to rest. Some shut-eye was greatly appreciated.

And Nelson or Jackson would wake him if something was needed.

With that thought, Tom finally let his eyes close, and drifted into sleep.

* * *

"Well, that escalated quickly," Amir said once they were back to their Humvee.

"Not really," Kimball replied, placing his rifle on top of the hood. "An idiot would believe they'd actually give up. For a younger one, he keeps it together well enough. Even if he is weak."

"You just wanted an excuse to kill the woman."

Kimball smirked at his friend's statement as he started digging through his pockets. As if that needed to be said. Sometimes, he just liked to kill people. Nothing wrong with that, not out here, right?

"We can have the gate open and chase in after them-"

"No bother. We'll find them again." Kimball pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. "We need to start converging all our forces on them. Come sunrise, we're going to need to be done and out of here."

He dialed the number and brought the phone to his ear. After three rings it picked up.

"Hey, we found one of them but they got away. Where are you, we need to start consolidating."

There was no reply. Kimball frowned.

"Hello? Look, I know you're there, I can hear your nose whistling-"

_Click_! The phone went dead. Kimball brought it away and looked at it, then pocketed it again.

"Prick," he muttered. He turned back to Amir. "Whatever. Get on the radio, tell Hannigan to start getting everyone together."

"Sure, boss." Amir grabbed his rifle and left.

Kimball glanced at his watch. 11:36 PM. He had about eight hours before sunrise if he had any chance of completing this job. The city needed to be completely eradicated. No one but them were allowed to leave.

He grabbed his rifle and moved to the front of the column to tell the lead to prepare to move out. Time to get the lead out.

* * *

_BAM_!

Connors' fist contacted with Roberts' face. The captain's head jerked.

After half an hour of doing this, the man's face was a wreck. One eye had swollen shut, there were cuts and gashes that were dripping blood, and his entire face was colored red and purple. His lips were swollen, and several of his teeth had been knocked out.

Almost every Delta One member had taken their turn. Foley had hit him over the head with his Beretta, his left arm limp to relax the shoulder that had very narrowly missed taking a bullet. Jones had taken a few quick jabs at the man's chest. Bradley was the only one who had hung back, occasionally slapping the man awake if he passed out.

Normally they would not be abusing a prisoner like this. But they were angry, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

Connors stopped his beating and lifted the captain's head up.

"Alrighty then," he said. "You ready to tell us what your deal is? Why's Umbrella trying to kill us?"

He released the head so that the man could spit out blood. Roberts glared at Bradley.

"You started this," he said. "You started this when your pilots shot down our helicopter."

"Well, that was your first mistake right there," Bradley said, examining the magnum he had taken from Roberts. A pretty thing it was; he might just keep it as a souvenir. "See, when Delta stages an operation, our flyboys set up a red zone over the city. They maintain a perimeter that covers the entire grid we're working in. Unless the lead bird gets word of special permission for someone to fly overhead, no aircraft is allowed to enter or leave."

He stood up and walked in front of Roberts. "So if your bird was shot down, it was probably because it was flying in an area it wasn't supposed to be flying in, and doing something it wasn't supposed to be doing. Do I have that right?"

Roberts said nothing. That was all the answer Bradley needed.

"So you're basically admitted that your company overreacted and is staging a war on us because you didn't follow the rules and are throwing a hissy-fit because of it," he said. "Now I want to know, who else have you attacked? How many of our units have you targeted? Are they alive? Did you kill them? Choose your answers carefully, because if you're lying to us, I will gut you like a fish."

"Orders came through in the morning after the LZ. Kill all Delta on sight. I'm a soldier, I obey my orders."

"Well, my orders don't include killing off allies, so if that's Umbrella's way of bartering, I'm gonna gun straight for your leader. Now I'm not going to ask you again. How many of our men have you ambushed?"

"We've engaged two of your teams," the captain admitted. "I don't know how they went, I wasn't at any of them. But our men have their locations, and it's only a matter of time. Once we get the reports of you and Horan's positions, we-"

Bradley suddenly grabbed him by the vest. The atmosphere in the room changed; originally the Delta had enjoyed the beating, made jokes at his expense. Now suddenly they were serious.

"Horan?" he said. "You know his name. You know his _full_ name?"

"I...I..." Roberts gulped. He had just made another mistake.

"Do you know _our_ names?" Bradley grip tightened. "How much about us does Umbrella know? What do they know?"

"We...have everything." There was no point in denying it now. "We were given files to know you by sight. It had everything we needed to know about-"

_SNAP_! Bradley's fist collided with his nose, breaking it. He howled in pain; the sergeant slapped him.

"Where'd you get the info? Huh?" He was yelling now, angry and afraid. "Who gave it to you?"

"I...someone got them to us, Umbrella sent an expert-"

"_Where did you get our fucking files_?"

The fist collided with his face again.

"Who? _Give me a name_!"

Another punch. Two more teeth were knocked out. Roberts stuttered in protest.

"_A name_!" Bradley said, punching him again. "_I_-" BAM! "_want_-" BAM! "_his_-" BAM! "_name_!"

_RING_!

His fist stopped mid-swing. All five heads turned to a cell phone that was sitting on a container with the other personal gear they had stripped from the dead Umbrella mercenaries. Connors picked it up and tossed it to the sergeant, who hit the send button and brought it to his ear, not saying anything.

As he listened to the voice on the other end, his expression changed three times in just a few seconds. First came shock: his eyes widened, his mouth dropped open, his breathing grew heavier. Then came dread: his skin paled and he gulped. And then finally rage: his brow darkened, his mouth closed and teeth gritted behind his lips, the hand still clutching the magnum shaking as anger wracked through it.

The whole time, he never said a word. Not as he hung up and threw the phone away. Not even as he suddenly turned, aimed the magnum at Roberts, and put a .44 caliber bullet through his skull. The body jerked backwards with so much force that it caused the chair to fall backwards off its legs. It hit the floor with a low thud, the body laying in it, the legs hanging in the air limply, a look of complete shock on his face as blood trickled down it.

His men looked at him, stunned. Jones was the first to speak.

"Who was it, Sarge?" he asked.

Bradley leered down at the body. He threw the magnum on the corpse, having changed his mind about keeping it, and then looked around at his men, his glare dark.

His voice low, he growled, "_Kimball_."

* * *

**_Pokes his head in, looks around, comes in, clears his throat._**

**Uh...hi. Anyone still here reading? Yes? Okay, good.**

**So yeah. Not going to make any excuses as to why it's been over a year. Life. That's really all you need to know. Life got in the way. I graduated college back in May, so I'm now an adult of the real world. But I still plan to finish this story, so...here I am.**

**One big note I need to talk about, for those who read this far and are wondering about one fairly big thing:**

**If you recall, back when I started this story in 2006 (Jesus Christ, has it _really_ been that long?), there was another writer I was sorta-collaborating with. Jamie Gartland/Ashen Tallevaran's _To The Last Man Down_. We had a plan to cross over very little things, nothing that would dramatically impact either of our stories plot aside from certain details. We actually had it planned up until around this point, where Tom and his main character Harry Christie-Bennett would meet up and converse.**

**Well, that's all well and good, but why are you mentioning it? Mainly because his story, _To The Last Man Down_, no longer exists. You can look, I certainly have, but on his profile the story is no longer there. On top of that, he has not updated his still-existing stories since around 2009. Meaning, he's probably moved on with his life, and I do hope he has a good life, wherever he may be.**

**Regardless of that, I went through with the crossover on my end. I probably shouldn't have, I could have come up with something else, but I just liked the idea of it too much, and I think it worked pretty well. With that said, having not read the story in some time now, I know I've probably messed up some details. I went purely off rusty memory of Harry's character and the basic plot of TTLMD. I'm sure someone who remembers it better than me will correct me if I have screwed anything up.**

**I tried to stay as true to the character as best as I could remember it. I do hope people enjoyed it.**

**Man, this story has come a long way, hasn't it? When I started writing it all those years ago, I was just a sophomore in high school, and now here I am, a college graduate. I know there are times where I've gone a year or more without updating. There are times where the chapters become so hard to write (like this one honestly was, until about towards the end of the Kimball encounter when everything kinda clicked together) and I wonder if I shouldn't just end this off here.**

**But I will finish this story. I don't think I could make this clear enough._ I will finish this story_. I am _so close_ to finishing this story at long last to stop now. The ending is literally in sight at the end of the tunnel. I'm gonna reach it. And then someday write a sequel to it. And I hope you guys will still want to see it.**

**Okay, I think...that's it, I think that's all I needed to say. I'll hopefully have the next chapter up as soon as I can.**

**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it.**

**Peasoup.**


	25. The Doctor's Revelation

**I think THIS is the chapter where I can officially say we begin endgame. Either this one or the next one. Either way, mark off the beginning of endgame.**

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Doctor's Revelation

* * *

It was quarter to midnight when Dr. Isaacs arrived on the Delta compound via helicopter. It touched down on the edge of the helipad, occupied only by Four Six as it was going through refueling. The pilot turned the rotor off and let the engine shut down; they were sticking around.

Isaacs stepped out and looked around at the busy compound. National Guard soldiers were preparing the Humvees to move...into the city? Fat chance, their soldiers would prevent anyone else from leaving or entering...but then, looking at the heavy weaponry, maybe they would not be asking permission. Maybe Sullivan's threats really were the real thing.

How did they know? How _could_ they have known? That was the thought that was nagging at him. He had personally requested his name be kept off the manifests involving the U.B.C.S; no point in confirming a scientist was leading the mercenaries, not when he also had his own research to attend to. Someone had to have ratted him out, but who, exactly, he could not say. Whoever it was, Isaacs would be sure to hunt him down to the ends of the earth.

He turned to his pilot and nodded. He would go in alone from here.

* * *

_Being wounded sucks_, Sam Arnold thought, wincing as the medic pulled the Compress bandage off to clean at the wound. The good news was that the wound had stopped bleeding; the bad news was that it stung like hell and made cracking his neck feel like his shoulder was being cut with a sharp blade. He could not move his head sharply, otherwise he was in a world of pain.

As the medic worked on him, he saw a man step down from the helipad. He was light-haired, clean-shaven, dark eyes sweeping around the compound. He was tall but not particularly well-built, and definitely looked more like the indoors type. He was wearing work clothes under a white lab coat...one that had the Umbrella logo printed on the breast where the name tag would be.

Arnold sat up. This was their guy.

"I have to go," he said to the medic.

"You can't, I'm still working."

"Then hurry up and patch it. I have a meeting to get to."

The medic shook his head, but Arnold was insistent. The man responsible for the assault on their men was on their base, about to be picked apart by Sullivan. There was no way he could miss out on it.

Maybe if he was lucky, he could get in a couple good shots himself.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Arnold strode into the meeting room, a fresh Compress bandage over his wound. Sullivan and Riley sat on one side of the table, and the doctor sat on the other side.

"Ah, Sergeant, have a seat," Sullivan said, his eyes never leaving the new arrival. "We were just acquainting ourselves with Dr. Isaacs here."

Arnold had a seat, glaring at Isaacs, who stared right back. He drummed his fingers on the table impatiently.

"Sergeant Arnold was in charge of the convoy your men tore apart the other day," the captain explained. "He managed to make it back with his men before you completely annihilated them."

"Ah." Isaacs sneered. "And you're my jury, I take it?"

His voice was full of bitter sarcasm, but his eyes showed fear. _Pompous little shit_, Arnold thought. _Bet if he looked down the barrel of a gun, he'd shit himself_.

"We barely got out in one piece, thanks to your mercenaries," he said, his voice full of bitterness. "One of my men is still on the operating table."

"A pity," said Isaacs, turning back to the captain. "But if you're here to throw accusations at me, then I'd rather we did this over the phone. I have a lot of work to do-"

"Yes, your work," Sullivan interrupted, sliding a file full of documents towards him. "I've been reading up on your work. Interesting stuff. I especially like the part where you authorize use of living humans as test subjects."

He watched Isaacs' face go pale as he opened the folder and saw its contents. Mackenzie had compiled for them a very detailed report, giving everything he knew, including photos and sketches he had sent over from his own archives. Thrown in were some overhead surveillance photos of the creatures on the ground from their own birds. And this was just the tip of the iceberg. Sullivan could only imagine what the hackers at Fort Meade could get their hands on once the report came in.

"How...did you-"

"You underestimate what the government can get its hands on. Especially when you talk to the right people."

_Noted_. Isaacs stared at the research before him. Christ, there was a lot of it here...the history of the company, the origins of the virus research, the recent developments in the research, the formation of the paramilitary units, some of their more recent operations...how big of a breach were they experiencing here?

"That's the thing with hiring mercenaries to be your military structure," Sullivan continued, spinning a pen around on the table. "The moment they get a better offer, they'll go for it. Even if it means betraying their employer for it. They'll say or do anything to protect their own asses."

Someone in the U.B.C.S had betrayed them? Possible...their loyalty only ran so far as there was enough money for them, or their lives were not in jeopardy. He would have to put a word in when he got back about dealing with breaches in security. Putting those men in line, and getting rid of the ones who would not.

Isaacs closed the folder and slid it back. He had seen enough.

"So," he said, folding his hands together. "You bring me here and make accusations on my company's research based on the words of a defective mercenary. Do you have any more concrete proof than that?"

"You know full well that all I have to do is get word of this to the White House and they'll have Umbrella's presidents in front of the Supreme Court so fast they'll get whiplash."

"And you think that will get them to spill their guts?" Isaacs laughed. "You clearly don't know Mr. Spencer or Mr. Ashford very well."

"No," Sullivan kept his smile up, "but I'm sure before long, they'll come to know me."

The tension was thick, as Arnold looked back and forth between his commander and this scientist. Could this little scumbag be pressured into surrendering? It was possible, but he had to assume the man had some brains. Right now, he was probably wondering if this was legal in a court case, this sort of manhandling, and whether or not he should have his lawyer present. Well, maybe they could distract him long enough before a Fifth Amendment plea came up.

"Is that everything? Because if not, I should be returning to my camp-"

"Oh, it's not everything," Sullivan replied. "You're going to tell us why you've decided to make the stupid decision to attack my men. You're going to tell me what possessed you to assault my forces when the entire city is trying to kill them, because of an accident your company is responsible for. And please, no bullshit. If I feel you're lying to me, it will only make things worse for you."

Riley smirked as he finished writing in his pad. Arnold now kept his gaze firmly on Isaacs, who clenched his jaw, weighing his options. There were not many; tell the truth and face the courts, or lie and face courts...and possibly death. Either way he lost, but would it be the easy way or the had way?

Isaacs sat back in his chair, sighing. He ran his hand through his hair. This was quite a mess. No one was supposed to know that Umbrella was conducting their affairs in Raccoon City; that had been the whole point of him working out here. Umbrella was supposed to come out on top at the end, announcing rescue efforts once the city was eradicated and then setting up safety measures to ensure this sort of thing never happened again...but all that depended on no one ever learning the truth. Well, that was down the toilet now.

How much could be used against them? Would anyone believe them? It was hard to say. He was a scientist, not a lawyer; legal matters meant nothing to him, they were beyond his comprehension. All he knew was that his life was in danger here more than his position with the company. So what to do?

Well, he thought, if they had to know, better they find out from him. Find out just how expendable they really were, in the grand scheme of things.

"Why are you here, Captain?" he finally asked.

Sullivan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, why are you here, in this city?"

The captain exchanged glances with Arnold, who raised an eyebrow. What was this guy playing at?

He turned back. "Our orders were to protect the civilians from the riots going on in the city. We were sent in to quell the hostile forces and-"

"But why _you_?" Isaacs leaned forward, his hand hitting the table. "You are Delta. You're one of the military's best units. You should be in the Middle East quelling civil wars or hunting down terrorist leaders, but instead you're _here_. Raccoon City is a back-end American town. Sending the National Guard would have been the most the government would have bothered to send normally. That would have been all they would _need_ to normally. But this has not been a normal situation, has it? So I'll ask again: why would the United States government send their most elite unit to some bumfuck town in the middle of Nowhere, America?"

There was silence at the table as the men let that thought sink in. Arnold was not entirely sure what to make of it. It was true that it had been the question on his and all of their minds since they were deployed out here: _why them_? This was so far beneath their usual work; it had seemed strange to send them out here when National Guard could have easily done the job. Hell, the Rangers could have handled it in two hours tops.

Of course, it had turned out to be a lot worse than anyone could have anticipated, but no one could have known that...unless...

"You were recommended via the tip of a government official that is affiliated with Umbrella," Isaacs went on to say. "The higher ups knew things were getting worse with Raccoon City. They knew we could not control a potential outbreak. So they decided, hey, why not test these creatures running around this city? That is why you're here. You and the U.B.C.S were sent in to be tested against the zombies and other B. that had been created."

"You set us up," Arnold realized. Sullivan's fists tightened.

"You were both expendable. Umbrella wanted to see how the T-virus handled against live combat-ready soldiers. The result was that both units were almost entirely wiped out during the initial conflicts. Not the expected result, but there you have it.

"But that wasn't enough. Delta and Umbrella soldiers were running around after the landing zone fell. So I thought, well, why not test Delta's strength against our own and see how they come out? So I used you destroying a helicopter transporting one of our B. as grounds for starting a little war in the city. And so far...well, so far, our side has been gaining a bit of a lead over yours-"

There was a loud crash as Arnold stood up, threw his chair aside, strode over and placed the barrel of his handgun to the scientist's head. He cocked the hammer back.

"My men got shot to hell out there just so you could run your goddamn _tests_?" he demanded. "We lost good men at that LZ, men worth ten times you, all so you could see if your science fair pets _worked properly_?!"

Isaacs eyed the gun that dug into his cheek. He gulped. One wrong move and his jaw was getting blown off. And he highly doubted their medics would waste their resources on him.

Sullivan's hand was shaking in his lap. Not with fear, however; with rage. His men had been sent out here to be slaughtered by Umbrella's monsters, and it was just so they could get combat data for them. They had orchestrated the entire thing, let the virus spread, and then order in commandos, all to further their own experiments. Was there no end to the arrogance this company had? Did they really think they were that above the law?

The situation had turned dire. If Umbrella had people in branches of the government, they needed to get word out to the president before disaster struck. This company was posed to do some serious damage to the rest of the country if left unchecked. They would have to act fast to ensure survival.

But in the meantime, he had to deal with Isaacs. "You're going to go back to your camp, Doctor," he said, and Riley looked surprised at this. "You're going to go back and let your company know what you've just told us. Let them know we know. And let them know that we are taking control of the checkpoint out of the city. The National Guard is going to move their convoy into the city and secure our men before the rest of the city is lost. Any Umbrella soldier we see will be shot on sight. No safe haven will be granted to any of them. Umbrella is to be considered an enemy of the state."

Arnold grinned. That grin faded when Isaacs sneered at the Delta commander.

"And what would the purpose of that be?" he asked. "Revenge? You'd stoop so low just for that? What could you want from it?"

"What I want," Sullivan replied, standing up, "are the rest of my men back on this base, alive, in one piece."

"Ah, yes, of course." Isaacs folded his arms, still aware of the gun that was pressed to the side of his face. "Delta Squadron, never likes to leave a man behind. At least, not since that one man...let's see, what was his name...Kimball, wasn't it?"

Arnold felt his heart drop into the farthermost bottom pit of his bowels as the old name left the man's mouth. He looked over to Sullivan, whose face was entirely unreadable but whom he knew was feeling the exact same thing. They were not going to like what this man was going to tell him. That name would not be dragged up again after seven years without a reason.

Isaacs knew that he had hit the right nerve, and that left a very smug, satisfied feeling in his chest, to have another one-up on them.

"Rather terrible thing, what happened to him," he continued. "You have seen him when they brought him in. He and his team had been wandering around the desert for days, terribly dehydrated, half out of their minds from hunger and fatigue. Our pilots picked them up and brought them in; our company had been doing research in that area and we happened to come upon them. He was ever so grateful-"

"What did you do to him?" Sullivan asked, and his voice had turned very venomous.

"We simply gave him an option." Isaacs shrugged. "He didn't think about it very long before accepting it. Seemed quite eager to join with out company. Even eager to tell us all that he knew about his former unit."

"Oh Jesus," Riley muttered, looking towards his captain. Isaacs sat back in his chair, finally letting his guard down.

"You'll be happy to know that he was very eager to volunteer for this mission. Seemed quite excited to see his old friends again. Who knows? Maybe he'll even pay them back for-"

_WHAM_! Next thing he knew, his face erupted in blood and pain as Arnold grabbed the front of his shirt and smashed his handgun into his face. His nose smashed quickly, blood pouring out of both nostrils and the new cut that appeared as his septum was shattered. His jaw felt out of place for a brief moment before his collision with the floor helped snap it back into place. He coughed and hacked up blood and a couple of teeth onto the floor.

He did not have a chance to get his bearings when the Delta sergeant again propped him on his knees and put his gun to the back of his head. Sullivan stood up and crossed over to them. He squatted down so that he was eye-level with Isaacs, staring hard at his broken face. Isaacs gulped; these were the eyes of a killer, not just a unit leader. He had pressed his luck too far.

"I'm going to let you go back to your camp now," he said, and this time Isaacs cringed at the sound of it. "And I'm going to let your people prepare to surrender to the National Guard when they get there. And you'd better hope to God I never see you again, because if I do, I will put a bullet through your head. Now get out."

Isaacs did not hesitate a moment longer. The minute the hold on him was released, he scrambled to his feet and bolted out the door, off to his helicopter, to hopefully make it back before the soldiers did and get warning out before they made everything worse.

No sooner was he gone that the mood changed. Gone was the animosity; now was time for action.

"Sam," Sullivan turned to the sergeant. "Get to the convoy and tell them to get moving now. We need to get that relief out into that city. We don't have much time."

"Roger that," Arnold said, and in a moment he was out the door.

"Carl, get Washington on the horn. Tell them Umbrella has people in the government. We need to find and apprehend them before they do something to take advantage of this madness. I want to know who suggested sending us out here."

"Yes, sir."

"Also tell them we have a former Delta operator working for Umbrella, one that's been missing since Desert Storm. Cross him off the MIA list and put effort into finding him. Kimball represents a significant breach in security. We have no idea what he's told them or how much they know about our unit."

"We also need to figure out if they've secured files on our men," Riley added. "If they have names, addresses, the like. Otherwise, their families might be in danger as well."

"Move. We do not have any a moment to lose. Get Sonar on that _now_."

"Right away, Captain." And Riley was out the door as well.

Sullivan's hands were shaking again, and this time they were to fatigue. He felt very tired. He had barely slept at all in the last three days, which had blended so closely together that they all felt like one. He suddenly felt thirty years older, a feeling he had not had in all the time he had been with the unit.

First the LZ attack...then the Umbrella assaults in the city...then the revelation that zombies and monsters were real...now the discovery that they had been betrayed on two ends, one from the government, the other from a soldier he had long thought dead. What more surprises could they possibly throw at him? How much more could he take before he completely lost it?

He just had to keep it together for another few hours. Until his men were out of the city and back at base. Then he would be allowed to relax.

* * *

The convoy was ready to move out. Arnold walked up and down to make sure every single vehicle was loaded up. There were one hundred and fifty National Guard soldiers mounted in twelve Humvees and four flatbed trucks, all armed with M-4s, M-249s, and Remington sniper rifles. Maybe some of them had seen deployment somewhere, or maybe they were all green, but they had the numbers and the training, and that mattered a bit.

Arnold moved to his Jeep, the one that had survived two days in the city and the only vehicle left mostly undamaged by Umbrella's bullets. Atkins and Lake were loading their equipment onto the back.

"So we're really going back out there?" Atkins inquired as his team leader reached them.

"You have objections to that?" asked Arnold, placing his bag next to theirs.

"Me? Kinda. I mean, we barely got out of there in one piece, now we're going back out?"

"Come on, man," Lake said, his trademark grin back on his face. "Where's the fun in sitting out the action? Delta's always first into the action."

"Not this time."

All three of them turned to see Sullivan approaching them. Arnold frowned.

"What do you mean, not this time?" he said.

"When you get to the Umbrella compound, I need you three to stick around and organize things," the captain announced. "Get the Guard soldiers situated, get the Umbrella scientists in one area and keep everyone under control."

"_Guard duty_?" Arnold could not believe what he was hearing. Was his captain being serious? "We're the highest soldiers in this entire convoy, we should be right at the front!"

"And if you didn't each have a bullet hole apiece, I would allow for that. But seeing as how you're all wounded, I can't let you put yourselves at risk like that."

Lake groaned. Atkins looked torn between relieved and disappointed. Arnold went right up to Sullivan, angry.

"You promised," he growled under his breath. "You said we were first up for this one."

"I'm sorry, Sam." There was no hesitation in Sullivan's voice; the matter was resolved, in his mind. "Once things are under control in the camp, then you can head out. Until then, you are to stand down in the camp. Understood?"

Arnold was livid. After this waiting, all this chomping at the bit to get back out there and save their men, and now once again he was being made to sit in the sidelines. What the hell had changed? There was something different about Sullivan's manner, he sounded almost fragile. Had Isaacs' revelation really changed so much?

Sullivan did not wait for an answer. He nodded to the other men and left, back to the control room to oversee operations.

The whistle blew from the back of the convoy. They were getting ready to move out. The Delta troopers piled into their Jeep; Atkins in the driver's seat, Arnold in passenger, and Lake hopped onto the back. The marksman turned his head over his shoulder.

"What are we going to do?" he asked.

"What Sullivan says, I guess," Atkins replied, shrugging. "Not much we can do, I don't think."

Arnold said nothing. On the outside, he seemed like he was moping, furious with the decision. Yet Atkins had worked with him long enough to tell when the gears in his head were turning. And whatever he was planning, it was sure not going to be pleasant.

And with that, the vehicles started moving out. Atkins followed the lead Humvee, the feeling of dread in his stomach. He had barely escaped that city alive last time, had the bullet wound to prove it. Now he was getting as close to going back in as he possibly could. And who knew how bad the situation had gotten in the day they had been away from it? And he was driving back to that?

The only excuse he would have would be to save the other teams. But could any of them still be alive at this point?

* * *

Wirtz knew something had gone horribly wrong the moment the chopper returned and shut down. All it took was one look at Isaacs getting off the bird and seeing his heavily bloody face to know things had gone terrible at the meeting.

Still, she had to say "Oh my God, what happened?" as was proper. She was met with no response. Isaacs pushed past her and retreated into his tent, and that was the last she saw of him until the end of operations the next morning.

The National Guard arrived twenty minutes later. Wirtz knew it was them, at least internally, even though seeing them made her numb with dread. They had about four U.B.C.S men stationed with them, not so much for them as it is to man the gate going in and out of the city. The rest of them were all scientists with no weapons training and no means to defend themselves from attack.

The convoy parked itself in the middle of the camp, and the National Guard soldiers piled out. Their weapons were immediately at the ready, pointed at the scientists, who upon seeing them put their hands in the air to surrender. Two of the men approached Wirtz, who stepped backwards.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, though the crack in her voice gave away her fear.

"U.S. Army is taking over this station, ma'am," one of the men- a lieutenant, judging by the gold bar on his collar- answered in a authoritative tone. "Hand over the keys to the gate and all computers and information to us."

"You can't do that, we're in the middle of experiments-"

"We're also placing you all under arrest." Here the lieutenant drew smug satisfaction from seeing her face turn completely pale. "Gather all your people together in one of these tents, my men will make sure none of you leave until everything is wrapped up."

There was some gunfire. One of the U.B.C.S guards on the wall had taken aim at one of the soldiers and was immediately cut down by three assault rifles. His body fell off the railing and landed on a table, the weight upon impact snapping it in half. The other mercenaries were throwing their weapons down to the Guard soldiers that were aiming back up at them.

The lieutenant's aide grabbed Wirtz and guided her to the research tent where the rest of their team was being placed under guard. Arnold came up, weapon in hand.

"Isaacs has shut himself up in his tent, he's not coming out. Make sure he stays put and doesn't contact anyone," he said. Then after a pause, he continued with, "hey, listen, you guys have this under control, right? You really don't need us here, do you?"

"I'm leaving a platoon behind to guard. These feather merchants won't be giving us any trouble."

"So you don't need us here?"

"Affirmative. My men can handle this just fine."

"Excellent." Arnold smirked. There was that problem taken care of.

He left the lieutenant and approached his Jeep. Atkins and Lake were standing near it, waiting for orders. The sergeant hopped into the driver's seat.

"Listen, you two can stay here if you want," he told them. "But I'm not sitting around waiting for these guys to finish our fight. Our boys are waiting for us, and I'm not letting them down. No one gets left behind. So what's it going to be?"

_I knew it_, Atkins thought. Arnold was not planning to sit around and wait. He had made his choice. Now they had to do the same.

He and Lake exchanged glances. The marksman shrugged, smiling.

"Not really a choice, man," he said. "Just a way of life."

Atkins nodded, sighing. "Yeah, you're right." He turned back to his team leader. "Budge over, I'll drive."

Arnold smiled. He knew he could rely on them. Delta all the way.

This time they really were heading back out, as the gates opened for the convoy. But it was different now. With this large convoy at their disposal, any monsters out there would be instantly mowed down. And with them would fall the Umbrella mercenaries. They had the numbers and firepower on their side this time; Umbrella had nowhere to run but back to their base now.

_And_, as Arnold thought as he lead the column of Humvees and trucks filled with soldiers into the city, _that was no longer a safe place to run to_.

* * *

"Sir."

Sullivan looked up from the file on Umbrella research. Riley had returned from his job, but...something was wrong. He looked uneasy.

"What's wrong?" he asked, closing the file.

"The, uh..." Riley gulped; whatever he was about to say, Sullivan thought, it was not good. "The government responded to our calls. They know about the outbreak, and they know that measures to contain it have failed, so..."

"So?"

The lieutenant gulped again. Sullivan saw that the man's hand was shaking.

"So come morning, the situation will be dealt with...and the city will become completely sanitized."

He let the pause hang in the air as the captain took that in. He frowned.

"What do you mean, 'sanitized?'" he asked.

"I mean...come dawn, the outbreak will be destroyed...as well as the entire city."

Now Sullivan was standing. This was not good. When containment protocols failed, the only surefire way was neutralization. And that only meant one thing.

"What are they using?"

"One cruise missile, nuclear warhead strong enough to level the city and the surrounding forest for miles."

_Jesus Christ_. "Don't they know we still have men out there?"

"It's too risky, sir. It's been four days since the outbreak started and things haven't improved since then. The wall can only do so much. They need to neutralize it now before it spreads and we have a global biohazard on our hands."

"So I just sent a company of National Guard soldiers to their deaths, is that what you're telling me?"

"The deadline is for dawn, seven A.M. If they can be out of the city by then, then they're safe."

It was just past midnight now. So he had seven hours to coordinate his men and the National Guard soldiers out of the city. Considering their track record over the last couple of days, that would take nothing short of a miracle to pull off.

"We need to re-establish radio contact," he said, moving past Riley and heading for the door. "We need to do it now."

"We haven't figured out what's jamming us yet-"

"Then we find a frequency that isn't jammed. We have seven hours to get our men home. Let's get it done."

* * *

**I admit, I was in a bit of a kick after the last chapter, which is why there's another update so soon. I might have rushed this a bit, I went and tried to add more to the rushed bits, hopefully we enjoy.**

**I'm really looking forward to next chapter. I'm gonna start working on it right away. Like I said, we are now on the road to the end of the story. Still a few more chapters left, but we're getting very close.**

**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and as always, peasoup.**


	26. Open Air

**This is a very fast chapter. I haven't juggled all the teams in one chapter like this since the story's genesis years ago. I gave Delta Two the most screen time because they're the ones we've seen the least of in recent chapters. Otherwise, this was a fun chapter to write.**

**Only reason this took me a while was because I wasn't sure if I was happy with it or not. I decided I was XD hope you all enjoy.**

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six: Open Air

* * *

Sullivan and Riley arrived in the control room. Most of the activity over the last couple of days had dwindled down as most of the staff had dissolved into watching the screens and communicating with both the pilots in the air and the National Guard units. Tonight it was a little more bustling as they all made preparations to bring the men home.

The two commanders found Sonar by the large communications outlet. Any incoming or outgoing calls came directly through him, through which he would pass along as necessary. The clerk looked up as they approached.

"Sirs," he greeted.

"Sonar," Sullivan began, "we need to get the message out to our men to get out of the city. Can we do so?"

"I've been trying to get the radios working for days, sir, and I think I may be close to the source of the jamming. If I can neutralize it, I can send any message you want out."

"How long will it take?"

"Can't make promises for it, sir. I could have it in a few minutes, I could have it in six hours."

"Well, we don't have six hours to waste on it. If we can't broadcast on this frequency, then we'll have to broadcast on open air."

It had been an option always, but with the U.B.C.S armies it was too risky to try. On an open air frequency, anyone with a working two-way radio could hear everything. And any enemy forces hearing would know exactly where their soldiers were. Open broadcast would normally do more harm than good.

"I understand the risk," he continued, seeing the hesitant faces. "But it's a necessary one, I believe. We need to coordinate them all in one location for our convoy to pick them up?"

"Sir, where would they all meet? It's a big city," Riley pointed out.

"I've thought about that." Sullivan lead the lieutenant and the clerk over to the mapping table, where the grid map of Raccoon City was sprawled out. He grabbed a red marker and circled a spot near the city's substation.

"There's an old communications bunker left over from when the city was first founded," he explained. "After the LZ fell, this place has stuck out to me as a potential rallying point. Sturdy, small, but the field is easy enough to land helicopters in if needed."

"The buildings could be vantage points for Umbrella snipers," Riley noted, his finger trailing the apartment buildings on the north end of the courtyard. "Rooftops could hold an entire company. It's far from the entrance point too, our convoy would have to fight through the entire city to get there."

"One step at a time. First we have to get the word out."

* * *

"_Mom, stop-"_

"_Bill, come back!"_

_It was like this, every time he had to leave. For college, for enlistment, every single time he ever had to return from leave, as infrequent as it was. Now here he was once more, bags in hand, with his mother pleading with him not to return._

"_I have to go, Mom, please knock it off-"_

"_But you just got here! Can't they let you stay longer?"_

"_A situation has come up that they need us for."_

"_What situation?"_

_God, how he hated this. "Some town out west is in trouble, riots and the like. It's bad enough that they need our help."_

"_Can't they wait another day? You're still on leave!"_

_He sighed. He knew he should not be hard on her, now that Dad was gone and everything. She was all alone here. There was always the nursing home, of course, but he did not want to resort to that yet. The money he sent back ensured she would keep the house, but at the cost of him not being here to take care of her. Yeah, someone came in to take care of her for a few hours a day, but that was not the same, was it? Not the same as having family there to support you. _

"_Mom, you know when they call, I have to go. I don't have a choice. My team needs me to lead them in." He made for the door again._

"_Bill, please!"_

"_Mom!" He whirled around, red in the face from anger and sadness. "I get it, okay? I'm sorry I leave you here alone, but I don't have a choice in the matter! I'm doing this FOR you, okay? So that I don't have to shut you up in a home. Can you get that?"_

_He regretted snapping as soon as his mother shrunk away, wide-eyed. He hated it. He hated all of it. Why the hell was he being taken off leave now? What was so important in this town (what was the name of it again? It was an animal's name, wasn't it?) that it had to take him away from her so soon?_

_But orders were orders, and he could not disobey. Hopefully this mission was not too big._

"_I'll call when I get there, Mom. I'll be home soon." He turned with his bags and went out the door._

"_Bill! Bill, come back! I'm sorry! Come back, Bill, please! Please!"_

* * *

"Hey, Sarge, wake up."

Waters snapped awake. He sat up, eyes still laden with sleep, a numb throbbing feeling from the back of his right shoulder. It took him a moment of clearing the sleep from his head before he remembered where he was: in Raccoon City, in some apartment somewhere, resting his wound. Of course.

"How are you feeling?" He turned as Mabrey got off his chair and approached him.

"Like I slept through an entire day," he replied as the medic began checking his shoulder. "How's it look?"

"Decent," was the reply. Waters wondered how much of that was exaggerating. "And you did sleep through the entire day. It's midnight now."

"_What_?" Waters glanced outside. Sure enough, it was still dark, and it had been close to sunrise when they had stopped. How could he have slept through the whole day?

"Why didn't either of you wake me?" he demanded, feeling like a child. Team leader, and he had wasted valuable time sleeping.

"You needed the rest," was the reply. "Streets have been mostly quiet all day, just zombies moaning up and down. We have the building secure, we take turns on guard. Haven't had to fire a single shot since we've been here. We can probably wait the rest of this out until help arrives."

_Help_...that was right. The convoy was gone. How the hell were they getting out of here?

"Yo, Owens!" Mabrey called out the door. "He's up."

Owens came in, Slowenski's SAW still in hand. He grinned at the team leader.

"Hey, Sarge. Have any good dreams?" he asked jokingly.

"Thrilling," was the reply, as Waters strapped his helmet on and grabbed his rifle. He was starting to think straight again, his bearings grounded. His shoulder, while sore, felt manageable. He felt ready to lead again, get back into the fight.

"Alright, we'll stick around a little while, scrounge anything else we think might be useful. Then we'll be on our way."

* * *

"Command, this is Delta Five, repeat, this is Delta Five, do you read, over?"

Sanderson sighed. Hallings was back on the radio, trying to get through, even though they all knew their words would not break through. Whatever was wrong with the radio, it was doing its job well; no matter what they did, communications was not breaking through.

Since they had split from the others, they had stuck to the back alleys of the city, moving as quietly as they could so as not to attract any more attention. It had been slow progress, but it meant no encounters. Morale at this point, however, was at an all time low; there was no friendly chatter or any attempt to lift spirits. There was just silence and desperation.

There had been no word from Shipley or Bielski since the split. Occasionally Sanderson would try to raise them on the teamlink, but it was always met with no response. Where were his men? Were they doing what he was doing to survive, or had they been captured? Or...no, best not to think about that. He had to believe they were out there somewhere.

"Here," he said to Anna, offering her a blanket he had pulled from his bag. "It's cold out here. Wrap up while we figure out where we're going."

Anna was sitting on a ledge against a wall, her arms wrapped around her to keep warm. She was shivering, but her face had no expression. She was shutting down, he realized. Everything that had happened was taking its toll on her.

"Hey. _Hey_!" He snapped his fingers in front of her face, and at least she turned to face him. "Stay with me, okay? We're not out of this yet. Not by a long shot."

She nodded slowly. She was responsive, although not by much. They needed to get out of here before she completely switched off.

"We're going to be fine. We're gonna link up with the others and we're gonna make it out of here. I need you to stay with me, though."

"If you say so," she replied, her voice hoarse and choked.

_Dammit_, he thought. This would only work so far if everyone stayed strong, but too much had happened. Unless a miracle came, they were screwed.

"God _dammit_!" Hallings kicked a trash can over. Apparently he had realized the futility of his efforts. Sanderson got up and went over to him, hoping no one heard the noise he was making.

"What's going on, Sarge? Why won't they answer us?" the gunner asked, his face one of despair.

The sergeant sighed. "I don't know. Something's jamming the signal."

"Jesus...why did they even send us out here in the first place? I mean..." Hallings looked outwards, into the city, shaking his head. "We never stood a chance. We're not trained for this kind of shit."

"I know." It was not something Sanderson liked to admit, but the truth had been told. As good as Delta was, they did not train for these situations at Fort Bragg. No one had ever told them what to do if zombies had overrun a town.

"We'll continue to navigate the alleyways," he said, checking the ammo count in his rifle. Still twenty rounds. Hopefully he could make them last. "Make our way to town hall. Try and get a signal out, and if not, get our bearings to the exit of town. We can make it out of here. We just have to be careful."

* * *

"One...two...three."

Swinging in unison, Foley and Jones released the body on three. It plummeted onto the street below, landing on top of the bodies of his comrades. Further down the street, they could see the zombies start to turn the corners, heading their way.

"The smell must attract them," Jones noted. "Bodies haven't even begun to stink yet, and they're already coming 'cause they smell dinner."

"Terrific," said Foley. "Well, they can chew on these long enough 'til we're out of here."

The two men grabbed their weapons and hopped down the hatch back into the store. The area was mostly cleaned up now, save for the blood stains which would probably never come out. Bradley and Connors were standing on opposite ends of the room; the sergeant was staring out the window, while the gunner was pacing back and forth.

"You're _sure_ it was him?" he asked again.

"_Yes_," Bradley retorted impatiently. "I'd recognize that voice anywhere."

"I thought Kimball was dead," said Jones, looking around at the rest of his team, all of whom had been on that mission that he had not. "He didn't come back from that op, right?"

"Couldn't say, we never found his body," replied Foley. "But I mean, the chances of him surviving that desert with the entire Iraqi Republican Guard everywhere, those are low odds right there."

"And if it _is_ him?" Connors demanded, having stopped his pacing. "A Delta soldier in Umbrella's ranks? He knows everything we know, he has all our information! Umbrella soldiers could be ransacking our homes now, lining up our families for execution or ransom! Umbrella could be moving against our base _right now_! They could be making us out as an enemy of the country! Hell, they could pin the entire outbreak on us if they needed to!"

"Now hold on," Bradley turned around to face them. "There are a hundred steps that need to happen in order for that kind of situation to play out. We're on step five. You're talking about step ninety-six. Let's not lose our heads over this. The mission is still the same."

Survival, that was the mission. So far they had been the luckiest of the other Delta teams in that their team was still entirely intact, and that luck had lasted them these last few days. That luck could run out at any time, though. The city had gotten quieter in the last six hours, but that could just mean there was something bigger planning to spring up.

It was the calm before the storm. And he would rather they avoid the storm entirely.

* * *

"We need to broadcast now," said Sullivan. "Switch it over to open air."

"Sir, let's think about this," Riley protested. "Open air, Umbrella's going to know exactly where they are. They could get there before our men do, and if they did-"

"It's a risk we need to take. Umbrella has had surprise on their side this whole time, and it's that element that has won them their battles. But our men will know they're going to be walking into a hornet's nest. They're going to be prepared. And they're going to win."

The lieutenant looked hesitant. Sullivan continued. "I believe this will work, Carl. If we can coordinate this, if we can get the rest of our men in one place and together, then we have a fighting chance."

"Your call, sir," his subordinate relented. "I sure hope this works."

_You and me both_, Sullivan did not have to say aloud. He turned to their clerk, who was looking from one officer to the other as they spoke, waiting for his orders.

"Sonar," the captain said, "do it."

"Yes, sir," Sonar nodded. He switched the radio off Delta's airwaves frequency and to open broadcasting. He put his headset on and brought the microphone to his mouth as he flipped the transmitting switch.

"All Delta units, this is Delta command, stand-by for instruction. Repeat, all Delta units, this is Delta command, stand-by for instruction.

All four heads immediately turned towards the radio as Sonar's voice suddenly emitted from it, scaring the bejeezus out of all of them. They all looked around at each other, all wide-eyed in shock.

"I'm guessin' this ain't a mass hallucination then?" Foley asked them.

Bradley stalked towards the radio and brought the headset mic to his mouth. "This is Delta One, standing by for instructions, over."

* * *

Sanderson and Hallings were staring up at the sky, which was clear for once amidst days of cloudy weather, when their radio crackled. Hallings was so surprised he spun around trying to see the radio on his back to make sure he was not imagining it. Sanderson stopped him in place and grabbed the headset.

"Did we get unjammed?" Hallings asked, hope returning to his face.

"No." The sergeant shook his head. "No, this is being broadcast on open air."

"I thought we weren't supposed to broadcast open air?"

"We're not. But I guess it's bad enough that they had to." He flipped the transmitting switch. "This is Delta Five, standing by for instructions, over."

* * *

Waters' head snapped up as the radio on the chair in the corner suddenly came to life with Sonar's voice. He looked at his two men, who looked at the radio, then back to each other, not believing what they were hearing. He sprang over to the radio and grabbed the headset. Finally, they were getting a break.

"This is Delta Two, standing by for instructions, over."

* * *

"Sarge! Sarge, wake up!"

Tom snapped out of his slumber and jerked forward. He glanced at his watch; he had only been asleep for half an hour. It felt like he had been out for nine hours.

"What? What is it?" He shook himself awake, grabbing his rifle and walking over.

"Sonar's on the radio! He's gotten through!" He had never seen Jackson look as happy as he did right then. He could understand why, as the same jubilation was now springing up in his own chest. Communications were back up? That was a step in the right direction.

The rest of the Umbrella soldiers had gathered around to hear. Harry was standing over them, his expression hard.

"It's open air broadcast," he told the sergeant. "Whatever he has to say, you'd better make sure he says it fast before Umbrella listens in too hard."

Open air? They were not supposed to do that. The situation had to be really bad for Sullivan to resort to that. Tom grabbed the headset and flipped the microphone on to speak.

"This is Delta Eight, standing by for instructions, over."

* * *

"Okay." Sonar said, turning back to them. "I can't tell if we've got them. Their radios might not be allowing transmission of any kind. But I think they're receiving."

He took off the headset and handed it to his commander. "They're all yours, sir."

This was it. Success or failure depended on this one transmission. This was his last chance to gather his men together and make one last stand, and if this failed, his unit would be destroyed. This was where they had to make their fight.

Sullivan grabbed the headset and put it on. Everyone in the room fell silent as they listened to their captain speak.

"This is Captain Sullivan. I'm broadcasting on open frequency, so I can't talk long.

"Gentlemen, I understand you've been working hard down there. I appreciate everything you've been through. I'm going to ask you to hang in there just a little while longer. Help is on the way to you. But we need to get you all in one place to get it to you.

"There is an abandoned bunker by the city's substation. The location is a block away from the Raccoon Police Department; you all know where that is. The area is large enough to support you and set up proper defenses. Convoy will meet you there. You will congregate there and hold out until they arrive. There is no ETA at this time, but rest assured: by the time the sun rises, you _will_ be home.

"Hang in there, men. And run fast. Over and out."

* * *

Tom ripped off the headset and turned to his two men. "Get your gear and get ready to move out, _now_."

Jackson and Nelson both nodded and scrambled to get their equipment. The sergeant stood and turned to Harry.

"Is the emergency exit in the back still secure?" he demanded.

"It is. We made sure of it. Check it every once in a while."

"Alright, we'll be leaving out through there. I don't know what you guys plan to do-"

"We'll manage." Harry offered his hand to shake. "Good luck out there. Watch your backs."

"And you." Tom took his hand and shook it sternly. "Drinks are on me when we're out of here."

"I'll hold you to that." But there was something sad about the smirk on Harry's face. As if he knew it would never happen. Tom tried not to think about it.

And then he and his men were moving, their dog right at their heels. One minute he was standing there, the next his pack was on his shoulders, the emergency stairwell was climbed, and the door to the outside was kicked open, showing the night sky once more. They were moving again, and they were moving fast.

They did not want to keep their men waiting.

* * *

"We're getting out?" Hallings could not contain his glee. It was a bit premature, but even Sanderson felt could not deny his relief at this news.

"Scout ahead. I'll go get her," he ordered. The machine-gunner nodded and moved forward as he ran back to where Anna was sitting.

"On your feet, kiddo," he said, helping her up and folding up the blanket. "We've got a ticket out of here."

Anna's face lit up. "You mean-?"

"I mean get ready to run, because we've got a few blocks to go. You know where the substation is?"

"Yeah, it's that big building near the police station."

"Can you lead us there?"

"Of course."

"Alright, then let's move. Rescue's going to meet us there."

And just like that, morale was improved. With one broadcast, they suddenly had the boost they needed to get out of their rut and to keep moving. With Anna leading the way and Hallings again covering the rear, the three moved as swiftly and as carefully as they could towards their destination. Sanderson had the feeling they could make it now, hopefully, heaven be willing.

His only hope was that Shipley and Bielski would figure out what was going on and make their way over there as well. He had to believe his two men were going to meet him there.

* * *

"By the police station," Connors said with a snort. "Can you believe that? If we had just stayed where we were, we would've been right there right now."

"Well, had we stayed, we would've gone up when the station blew," Foley pointed out.

"Well, can't change it now," Bradley replied, hoisting the radio up onto his back. "We're not far anyway, we can hike back. Is the road secure?"

"Hell no. Zombies are heading right for us. Smelling all those bodies out front," said Jones.

_Shit_. "Alright, well, we'll sneak out the back and make our way around the pack to the station."

He grabbed Shipley's helmet and threw it to Connors, who subsequently stuffed it in his bag. It was not much, but it was a memento of their friend, and it would be leaving with them one way or another.

"Alright. Let's move out."

They packed up and moved before the horde descended upon the corpses outside. They could hear the tearing of the flesh and the loud moans of the undead digging in to their meals. They tried to block out as much of it as they could as they circled around and began their trip back the way they had come, this time towards possible salvation.

They had had great luck so far. They just needed to hold it a little longer.

* * *

Waters moved to the bed and began packing everything together. "We gotta move before Umbrella mobilizes towards the objective."

"Sarge," Mabrey interjected. "That was open air. Anyone could have heard that. How do we know Umbrella's not already there waiting for us?"

"That's why we have to move fast."

"But it's a hell of a risk-"

He was interrupted by his sergeant turning around, looking annoyed. He shut his mouth.

"Look," Waters said, his voice low and picking up in volume as he spoke. "I am tired, hungry, and pissed off. I almost had a crate land on my head. I almost got run over. I almost got blown up. I got shot in the shoulder, I had one of my men killed. I have been wandering around this city for three days, and I am a very angry, very desperate man. Now there is a chance I can get out of here, and nothing, not some moaning zombie, not some overpaid mercenary, _nothing_ is going to stop me from getting to that bunker and getting me out of here! _Nothing_!"

"_Staaaars_."

As soon as he was done talking, they all heard that dreaded noise emitting from the streets outside. Owens and Mabrey turned their heads towards it and then looked at each other, eyes full of panic. Waters squeezed his eyes shut.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," he sighed.

He pushed past them and went to the window to look out. And there it was, on the right side coming down the road. It looked a mess; its jacket was blown off, revealing its green slimy chest and there were weird tentacles shooting out of the backs of its shoulders. Its machine-gun was gone, its rocket launcher looked empty, depleted of rockets, and in general it looked very tired. But it was definitely the same thing- the creature that had killed Slowenski.

Waters' hands balled into fists. It was still alive after all that firepower. But it could not be that durable, looking at it now. It looked on its last legs.

"Load your weapons up, get out the explosives," he ordered.

"Uh..." Owens gulped, looking out the window at the monster.

"Maybe we can just wait him out," Mabrey offered. "Wait for him to go by and then go-"

"_No_!" Waters hissed, turning to face them. "Enough is enough. I have had it with this motherfucking thing dogging us all over the entire goddamn city. Now break out the C-4 and prepare to engage. Let's pump this fucker full of lead 'til he doesn't get back up."

His men were taken aback, not used to their team leader getting so snippy with them. He did not care. This creature had been a thorn in his side since he had left the LZ days before. It had burned up their ammunition and killed one of their men. Now it was going to die the most painful death they could give it.

Mabrey grabbed a large pack of C-4 and quickly wired it together. Owens carefully wedged one of the windows open and placed the SAW's bi-pod on the sill and aimed it as steadily as he could manage at the creature. Waters moved to the next window and aimed his M-4 down at the center of its chest, where its heart should have been.

His own heart was beating ferociously in his chest, but it not out of nervousness but out of eagerness to proceed. Every encounter they had had against it had been it ambushing them, always getting the surprise drop, always dealing the most damage. Now it was their turn.

"All ready," Mabrey said. He held the charge in one hand, the detonator in the other.

"Count to three and then throw it right in front of him," Waters ordered. "We've only got one shot at this, so don't mess up. As soon as you detonate, we start shooting."

"Roger that." The medic looked at Owens and nodded. "Right. Showtime."

He opened his window and peeked out. The monster was still walking, not quite in position yet, moving slower if possible. Did he sense them? But he never looked anywhere but straight ahead, on his course, so perhaps not. Mabrey's hands were shaking as he prepared to throw, and he had to take a moment to calm himself. He gulped.

_Now_, he thought, as the creature was close enough. He swung forward, then back without releasing, gaining momentum, before throwing it out. He watched the charge arch up, then descend, almost in slow motion, watching it fall, fall-

-and land right in front of the monster's feet. It caught its eye and it looked down at its feet, looked down at the charge, in what appeared to be confusion as it arched its head to the side.

"_Now_!" Waters shouted.

Mabrey thumbed the detonator and watched as the C-4 exploded right in its face. The monster roared and staggered backwards, blinded by the explosion, pieces of C-4 shrapnel in its face and chest. Its arms waved around and its spent rocket launcher fell to the ground with a large clunk.

It did not get a chance to recover before the SAW opened fire. Bullets ripped into his chest at a high rate of fire, tearing its chest apart and spraying its dark blood all over the ground. How fitting, Waters thought. It was getting demolished by the weapon of the man it had killed.

Waters and Mabrey returned fire with their own weapons. Mabrey hit it twice in the head and several times in the shoulders and upper chest. Waters picked at its limbs, hitting its elbows and kneecaps, anything to cripple it. Three shots to its left knee and it staggered and fell on it, allowing for automatic fire to hit its upper back.

_Don't let up_, Waters thought. _Not for a second_. The monster was on both knees now, and it was starting to turn, to go the other way. _Not yet_.

He left his window, tossing his rifle onto the bed, causing his teammates to cease fire and stare in wonder. He left the room and turned into the hall, running down the stairs, tackling them two at a time, hopping off the final step without missing a beat. He kicked open the door and strode out, pulling out his pistol and aiming it at the monster.

He fired one bullet into its shoulder, and then another into its kneecap. The rest he fired square into its chest, one round after another, while it roared in pain. Pain. It was hurt; finally, they were hurting it. It reared its head towards him, its one eye showing its agony, and it opened its mouth to roar when Waters fired his last shot into its mouth.

It choked on its words, coughing up blood and sputtering. Waters did not reload, but waited, watching to see what it would do. The creature began to rise to its feet, and he took a step back, ready to run back inside if it decided to go for the physical attack.

It staggered back, but then stood again, took one look at him...and then turned and limped off, back the way it had come down.

Waters' legs were shaking, but he grinned wide and let out a huge howl. He moved to the middle of the street and called after it, taunting it.

"_Yeah, that's right! Run back to whatever shitpool you crawled out of_!" he shouted as it half-stumbled away from him. "_I'll bet you're seeing stars now, aren't you, motherfucker_?"

He spat on the ground, on one of the large blood puddles, and flipped the finger at its retreating form. Then he looked back at Mabrey and Owens, who had come to the door with weapons in hand and were staring at him wide-eyed.

"Okay," he said. "Now we can go."

Mabrey just shook his head. Owens shrugged. If only that had been recorded, because that had been one hell of a spectacle.

They gathered their gear and took off. Waters trailed a little behind, balancing his gear on top of his wound. His shoulder stung with pain but he kept going. His men still needed him, and he was not going to let them down now.

One final push. That was all that was needed. Then they would finally be home free.

* * *

Captain Hannigan listened to the broadcast with his brow furrowed. All together they caught four teams still transmitting; exactly as they had thought. And they were all headed to one place for extraction, about five miles from their HQ and from current forces.

If they left, how much damage would it do? They could implicate Umbrella, but did they have any proof? Unlikely, but why even chance it? It was better to wipe them all out now.

"Sergeant Pryce," he said, turning to his sergeant. "Take your element and scout ahead. Tell Higgins and Laurent to move their forces to block off all the routes. We'll stop them before they even get there-"

"Let them get there."

The captain stopped and turned as Kimball walked in. Wolf groaned and returned to cleaning his rifle.

"What?" Hannigan asked. "What do you mean? You'd rather they gather their entire force in one spot?"

"Wouldn't that be easier?" Kimball asked with a sneer. "You've got four teams moving from four different directions all towards one spot. Barely any of them are at full strength. Instead of spreading your forces out all over the city trying to ambush them, why not put them in one place where all of our forces can move in and annihilate them from?"

Wolf and Pryce exchanged glances. This seemed like adding to trouble. Separate and unsuspecting, the teams would be easier to take down. Get them in one place, they could organize, get set up, prepare for anything that was thrown at them. True, with the numbers, Umbrella would crush them, but chances were it was at a higher cost than if they just nailed them one by one.

"It's risky," the captain spoke their thoughts. "We'd be better off moving in and taking them out separate-"

He was cut off by Kimball crossing over, grabbing the radio, and shoving it roughly into his hands.

"Give the order for all units to regroup and converge together," he said in a low voice.

Hannigan opened his mouth to retort, but stopped. There was a look in Kimball's eyes; a crazy look, a wild one. The sergeant himself seemed frazzled, like there was an itch he could not scratch. The captain had the suspicion the man might shoot him if he did not do what he said.

He grabbed the radio and brought it to his mouth. "All units, converge south of the police station and stand-by for orders."

Satisfied, Kimball left. As soon as he was gone, however, Hannigan turned to Pryce.

"Take a small unit and scout ahead just in case," he said.

"Yes, sir," Pryce nodded, and left.

Hannigan placed the radio on the table, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. It had been a long twenty-four hours since Kimball's arrival, and they had gotten a lot done, but not enough for him to say mission accomplished. This was the last thing he needed to accomplish, but time was ticking, and he could not afford to make any mistakes.

And Kimball...what was he planning? He knew these soldiers, he knew their stories. Just how personal was he making this attack? The way he looked, the way he was acting...something was not right. It was not how Hannigan liked to go about things. Once they got personal, then they would get sloppy, and sloppy meant casualties.

He did not want casualties now. Not when he was so close to finishing this mission.

"Captain," Wolf said behind him, "this asshole's going to get us all killed."

Hannigan sighed as he looked down at the map.

"I'm thinking you're right..."

* * *

Sullivan took the headset off and handed it back to the clerk. "Did it go through?"

"I think so, sir."

"Good." It was the best they could give them directly. The rest would have to be support. "Tell the chopper pilots to stand-by to provide support."

There was new bustling in the command post as the staff rushed around to make the final preparations. He walked back to the monitors to watch the overhead footage, hands behind his back, a stern expression on his face. Riley came to join him.

"We've done all we can, Carl," the captain said, his eyes looking into the footage of that town that had become their worst nightmare. "The rest is in their hands now."

* * *

**Next chapter: The teams finally link up.**

**See you then.**


End file.
